


Heed the Siren's Call

by missmungoe



Series: Shanties for the Weary Voyager [1]
Category: One Piece
Genre: Backstory, Ben is amused/exasperated at everything (meaning Shanks), Canon Compliant, Developing Relationship, F/M, First Meetings, Makino Deals With Many Things, Pre-Series, Romance, and learns that real romance isn't exactly what you'll find in a bodice-ripper
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-02
Updated: 2017-05-10
Packaged: 2018-05-30 14:42:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 19
Words: 124,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6428275
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/missmungoe/pseuds/missmungoe
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Rumours on the tide say he's got a girl in every port, but sea-sayings tend to exaggerate. There was only ever one port — and the one girl.</p><p>Pre-series. Bookish and wilful, Makino is twenty when her legal guardian leaves her on her own, and with a bar to boot. And it figures he'd choose the greatest personal upheaval in her life to make his entrance. After all, he's that kind of guy.</p><p>(11.05.2017: this fic has been rewritten and revamped, including some new content!)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. prelude, the crisp smell of paper

**Author's Note:**

> Update, 11.05.2017: So this whole fic has just seen a major overhaul, by which I mean the story is still the same, but almost all of it has been rewritten (I've also added about 40K to the word count). Some scenes have been expanded, some are completely new, and with the added benefit of hindsight (meaning two sequels and a companion fic), I've worked to tie all the Shanties fics into a more cohesive whole.
> 
> You can still find the original version on ff.net, but I hope you'll give this one a try! When I first moved this fic over here all I did was tweak the grammar, but this time I've gone through the whole thing, sentence by sentence. It's been a labour of love, as this is a pairing and a fic that are both very dear to me, but I'm quite happy with the result. I hope you like it!
> 
> Please bear in mind that the story makes a not-so-subtle jab at the typical romance novel, but with that said it's also a homage to every closet adventurer who spent their childhood years between the pages of books, dreaming they were off somewhere else.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wherein romance is all about velvet coats. Or something like that.

Corners curling and the ink faded to shadows, the old page sat gripped between slender fingers, an eagerness to the trembling pressure leaving its mark on the paper, bent slightly from the tender abuse. But it escaped the notice of the wide eyes following the strings of letters reverently, completely enraptured _—_

_'Your beauty is one to be envied, my dearest. Do not let anyone tell you otherwise.'_

_The voice spoke softly in her ear, as genuine as always, sending a shiver up her spine despite her anger. She spun around to face him, skirts whirling about her legs in a flurry of rich blue fabric. Her eyes searched his handsome face._

_'More empty words. I cannot _—_ will not  _—_ hear them!' Her voice was level, but the tears brimming in her eyes betrayed the turmoil raging within her, threatening to burst._

_His dark eyes softened, and he took a step towards her, hands reaching out for hers. She faltered in her step as she staggered back, tugging her hands away and clenching them tightly against her sides. 'I...will not _—_ ' she repeated, her voice hitching in her throat. But he was quick to grasp her elusive hands, enclosing them securely within his larger ones. His thumbs stroked her knuckles gently. _

_'I have caused you great distress, and for that I apologise,' he murmured softly. She shook her head._

_'Why? Why must you leave me?'_

_His hand reached to cup her cheek, turning her head to look at him. 'I am a wanted man. You know this. Remaining here puts you in danger as well, and I could not bear it if anything were to happen to you.'_

_She turned her face away, closing her eyes to stop the tears from falling. Her voice was hoarse when she spoke, 'And will you not come back for me?' She turned her face back to look up at him through her tears. He leaned closer, enveloping her in his arms. His sigh fanned her cheeks._

_'I cannot. My life is not for you, as much as I wish it were.'_

_The tears were falling now, running down her cheeks in rivulets, gleaming silver in the moonlight. He reached to wipe them away, a solemn smile on his face. 'You must continue your life as you should. Find a man who can take good care of you, and treat you well. Someone who can give you the children and the peace you desire, and deserve,' he said, and she could not stop the sob from escaping._

_'Is that truly what you _—'__

__—_  " ** **MAKINO!"****_

The book was sent flying with a shout, tearing itself from lips that had only moments before murmured the half-reverent echoes of a scene she could recite by heart, and the sudden contrast of sound yanked her bodily out of the fantasy  _—_ and with even less mercy than the barbed tail-end of her name reaching towards her from somewhere in the distance.

A heartbeat passed where she remained at a complete loss of where she was, before the last, lingering note of her name picked back up, lifting in volume, a rising crescendo of irritation so bright it had the hairs on the back of her neck rising _—_

"Makino! Where are you, you foolish girl?!"

Blinking into the low light, no moonlit sky to be found, only a blushing sun climbing down from its perch, the position of which had her eyes springing wide open, realisation dawning _—_ or rather, plummeting into her stomach. "Oh  _—_   _no."_

Oh, she was _late_.

Skirt gathered in her fist, Makino sprang to her feet, a hiss tearing loose of her teeth as her knees buckled beneath her a second later. Sometime during her page-bound rollicking her legs had seen fit to fall asleep, but she set her jaw with stubbornness, spurred by an intimate knowledge of what awaited her tardiness on a _good_ day and pushing away from the tree she'd been seated under, stumbling down the hard-trod path towards the village.

 _Oh, oh, it's late, and I'm so late, and she's so not going be happy._ Then, under her breath, "Although is she ever?"

But not three steps into her run she skidded to a halt, backtracking hastily to pick up the book she'd tossed, the well-worn paper cover yielding to the grip of her fingers, softened by long years and many readings. The faded picture on the front stared up at her, the passionate half-embrace of too-bared limbs draped in velvet as familiar as the story within, but their tender expressions seemed gently mocking now, as though privy to her dallying and aware of what waited at the bottom of the hill, and she tucked it into the pocket of her apron before she could remind herself that she was, _literally,_ reading too much into things.

Picking up her feet, she set off down the slope at a run, despite knowing full well that a few seconds more or less meant nothing when Emiko got her hands on her. Slipping beneath the old fence at the entrance to the village, she hailed a local fisherman on his way to the docks, fighting down a blush at his laughing remark that the old gal sure was in a fine frenzy, and that he was glad he wasn't in Makino's shoes.

Hoisting her skirt higher, she sprinted past the last few houses, lungs aching from the strain but tempted by a sudden desire to demonstrate that at least she'd come running when called, and by the time she finally reached the tavern's porch, she was completely out of breath.

And going by the fearsome mien that greeted her from under the hard weight of her old guardian's brow, in for one hell of a scolding.

Emiko had her arms crossed over her chest  _—_ never a good sign, in Makino's experience, especially when she'd tucked her hands into her elbows like _that_ , as though she'd gotten comfortable in the pose  _—_ and those sharp blue eyes were narrowed in an unbecoming glare as she took in the sight of the flustered girl on her porch, heaving all her breath into the open air in a blatant demonstration of breathless fatigue.

It didn't seem to earn her any sympathy, and Makino fidgeted under the relentless scrutiny, struggling to drag air back into her lungs without being quite so obvious about it. Her hair had fallen into her face, and she tucked it back into her kerchief, discreetly flicking away a leaf that had gotten tangled in the cloth.

"You're late."

She winced. "I know."

"What do I keep telling you about watching the time?"

"That I should be better at it?"

Those eyes cut. "And are you?"

It took effort not to fidget under that gaze. "N _—_ o," Makino admitted, shoulders sinking a bit. "But I'm here now, aren't I?"

"Watch that cheek," Emiko shot back, and Makino pressed her lips shut. Then, glacial eyes fixing on the lump in Makino's apron, a hawk seeking a small mouse's secrets, "Give it to me," she said.

The stark command was punctuated by the flash of an open palm, lifeline dug deep and calloused ridges climbing beneath crooked fingers. The gesture didn't ask questions, and didn't leave room for protest  _—_ likely because it didn't expect one. And knowing that hesitation was as good as a verbal rebuttal, Makino reached down to retrieve the book, handing it over with a sinking heart, even as a rosy blush bloomed at the top of her cheeks.

Emiko spared the cover a brief glance, greying brows arching, before her eyes cut to Makino, who was trying her very best to look anywhere else.

Then, "The hell's the point of even wearing a shirt if he doesn't bother buttoning it?" she scoffed.

Makino was resolutely not looking at the cover, and the bared male chest Emiko offered up for emphasis, although it didn't take long before she caved, embarrassment overcoming her better judgement.

The fluttering sleeves of said unbuttoned shirt hung off broad shoulders, against which the heroine was leaning, seemingly in a half-faint. "It's romantic?" Makino tried.

It was met with a dry snort. "Not the word that springs to mind," Emiko drawled, with another look at the cover. "But then you were always delicate about that sort of thing."

Then, seeming to weigh the paperback in her hand, "Can't believe you like this swill," she scoffed, but before Makino could protest, "The floors need cleaning and the glasses another polish before I open the bar tonight. Get to it," she snapped, and with a sharp turn of her heel, strode across the porch into the tavern.

Mouth pursed, Makino curled her fingers together, and bit back the snappish retort that she'd polished the glasses only that morning, knowing it was punishment for spending her time 'dallying in unrealistic fantasies whose only purpose is to put foolish notions of 'romance' into the minds of impressionable young women who damn well ought to know better', and she'd heard that particular lecture enough times to have memorised it whole, down to the inflections.

Dragging a breath through her nose, before expelling it in a sharp sigh of stubborn surrender, Makino trudged after her guardian, not five minutes without it but already longing for the world she'd left at the top of the hill, tucked away in her apron for safekeeping, although she really should have known better than to bring it back with her.

And maybe it was all unrealistic fantasy and sentimental drivel (same lecture, different words, and only slightly different inflections), but at least it beat whatever Fuschia had to offer. Windmills and endless farmland didn't exactly inspire romance. At least not the sort brought by roguish, bare-chested heroes.

Mop in her hands, she considered the floor  _—_ the walls and the windows thrown open. The polished counter-top, and the bottles stacked on the cherrywood shelves behind it. _This_ was her world, in all its mundane, lethargic glory, no silver moon glinting off the hilts of swords crossing in heart-duels, and not the flutter of a single velvet coat on the breeze. There were no great merchant ships pulling into port, bringing adventure  _—_ no white steeds, either, and forget about the charming lords; the quick-tongued thieves and kings in disguise.

And as for Makino...well. Not much of a protagonist, with her too-tender heart and gentle disposition. She couldn't throw a man head-first over a table; couldn't ride a horse bareback, or climb down the side of a castle in nothing but her undergarments. She couldn't flirt to save her life  _—_ or lie for that matter, face too open for untruths, and no guile to speak of.

But when she read, she was all those things  _—_ beautiful and fierce; sometimes fiercely beautiful. A village girl or a runaway princess; captain, queen, and lady-in-waiting. But whichever it was, there was always romance. And where there was romance, there was usually a roguishly handsome male protagonist. Painfully predictable, _maybe,_ but then her heart had never pretended to be anything else.

The automatic sweep of the mop pulled her eyes with it, back and forth, back and forth, although the floors were plenty clean, and her efforts more than a little redundant, Makino knew.

She cast a glance across the common room, wrapped in the quiet lull that preceded a moderately busy night  _—_ something else that was painfully predictable. But every port-town needed a tavern, even a village as small as Fuschia, and it would be Makino's business one day, whether she liked it or not. Party's had been in Emiko's family for three generations, and as her only legal heir, Makino didn't really have much of a say in the matter.

Of course, there was precious little else she could do in a place like Fuschia without a proper education, or at least the guts to take to the seas by herself. Not to mention, her sense of obligation that would never have allowed her to leave even if she could. So the bar was, in essence, her future.

As was the mop in her hands and the bucket by her feet.

 _A genuine tavern wench in the making_ , she thought sourly, giving the bucket a small kick. Just like Sara in _Clandestine Courtships_ , only Makino wasn't going to be swept off her feet by a brave and charming pirate _—_

"You waiting for the floors to mop themselves?"

The gravel-rough drawl dragged her promptly and without apology out of her thoughts, and Makino looked up to find hard eyes watching her from across the bar-top, the no-nonsense frown carrying a suggestion that she didn't need to voice for Makino to hear it.

Letting slip a sigh, and with a touch more drama than strictly necessary, she resumed her work, idle thoughts offered to the prospect of a man sauntering into Party's to take her with him for a change. It would have been her due, after sixteen years spent bored to tears by the clinking song of polished glasses and endless floorboards that needed scrubbing.

Of course, she was hardly material for a romantic sweeping, plain-faced and slender-limbed, but too short for grace, and the phrase 'ample bosom' as far-fetched as the idea of her riding bareback on a horse. And every protagonist she'd ever latched her heart onto had some kind of striking characteristic  _—_ wild, curly hair or freckles, or both. A perfectly placed beauty spot to catch the eye of a travelling bard, who'd spin a ballad from less. What did Makino have? A complexion too pale for a sunny seaside port, that's what. And lobsters across the four Blues wept in envy at what the sun made of that complexion, if she wasn't careful.

It was safe to say no handsome rogue would be coming for her any time soon. Fuschia didn't lend itself to much in the way of adventure, and it was a sobering thought now, Makino found, observing the empty common room and wondering if this was all there was to life  _—_ to _her_ life, not even two decades in but her fate already sealed; a long, lonely existence in a backwater port, tucked away in the farthest reaches of the East Blue.

The thought invoked another, and she stole a glance towards her Mistress, broad shoulders bent over a list of inventory where she loomed behind the bar; a hard, sovereign ruler of a too-quiet kingdom.

A fiercely private creature, Makino knew precious little about the woman who'd raised her from birth. But she'd never married, and other than Makino, she had no children. And spinsterhood had never been hard for Makino to reconcile with that sharp countenance and terrible temper, but there were murmurs of other reasons  _—_ a bitter, broken heart that never healed right, and a lonely life wrought from nothing but spite.

And there were others, still  _—_ the ones that claimed that bitter heart hadn't been broken at all, but left to wait for decades, and that it was stubbornness, not spite, that had kept it that way.

Her own heart a hopeless romantic's foolish treasure, Makino's unabashed preference for the latter version wasn't much of a surprise. And it would explain that occasional note of wistfulness that crept into her expression, softening the brittle lines of her face without her notice and cold eyes fixed on the far line of the horizon. Seeking a ship?

The prospect was almost too much to wrap her head around, even with her take-it-and-run-with-it imagination, and Makino was on her way to banish the thought completely when she paused, considering that tense back. And guilt was a swelling tide in her breast then, imagining it to be the case. Not a fanciful tale by any means, but the terrible simplicity  _—_ an old woman still set on waiting for someone who'd never come back  _—_ had inspired more than one novel in Makino's considerable hoard of similar tales, most of them heavily embellished, but the story at their heart less so.

And maybe the simple, everyday tragedies weren't so far off from the worlds she found in her books. If you took away the velvet draping, the rose-tinted glass and the certainty of happily-ever-after, what was left? A love that refused to let go was romantic so long that it was reciprocated, and as long as it bore fruit, but beyond that  _—_ to love someone so much that you'd rather live alone than without them...

It was a suddenly chilling prospect, and for a single moment Makino saw herself behind the bar, shoulders not as broad but her back hunched under some invisible weight, fingers never far from a glass to polish, if only to keep her hands busy. No husband and no children to call her own, and no one to grow old with as the tides changed beyond the port and Fuschia stayed the same.

The sad, lonely spinster whose story was common knowledge; the stuff of port-side talk and private jokes. The one mothers pointed to as they warned their silly, impressionable daughters of the dangers of falling for the wrong _—_

"What are you looking at?"

Makino blinked, brought back to herself, and to Party's, only to realise she'd been staring into space  _—_ or rather, straight at her old guardian, who'd turned around and was watching Makino now.

Scrambling for an excuse, "N _—_ nothing. I was, ah _—_ just lost in thought for a moment."

The old woman huffed, adjusting her apron with a sharp gesture. "Mah, that's what you get, reading all those damn books. Keep your head in the clouds any longer, soon you won't be able to tell what's real and what's not. Fool girl."

The query was halfway off her tongue before she could stop herself, and, "Mistress," Makino asked, curiosity taking the helm, as it tended to do.

"What?"

It was in better interest to grasp for an excuse, she knew, and had no idea why the thought was suddenly so relentless, but, "Have you ever tried reading one?" she blurted. "If you think they're so terrible, you  _—_ I mean, you must have a reason. And please don't say the covers."

She half-expected to have her ears boxed for the insinuation alone, but what she got what something else.

Emiko barked a laugh  _—_ a chortle, short and stark, but a sound that had Makino's brows shooting towards her hairline. "In my less than humble opinion, the covers are the only reason worth enduring that crap."

"Then why?"

She shook her head, a curiously solemn smile coming to settle, with all the ease of a too-tight corset. "Why suffer the reminder?" she asked, the question too quiet for the usual volume of her voice, and Makino was suddenly hard pressed to decide who she was talking to.

But it was an opening. And for someone who'd lived most of her life grasping at rumours, because all she'd ever gotten from the woman herself was an gruff 'mind your own damn business', Makino grabbed the opportunity now as it presented herself - plunged herself right in without even testing the waters.

"What do you mean by that?"

The little voice in her head whispering a familiar warning about sticking her nose where it didn't belong was silenced with a breath, and Makino squared her shoulders, fully prepared to suffer the consequences of her shameless prying. It would be worth it, just for the barest slip of information. Her over-active imagination could take it from there.

Curiously, Emiko didn't appear to have heard her, and now she really did seem to be talking to herself, "A fine man, weren't you?" she mused. Then, with a scoff; a sound far too soft for her, Makino thought, "Mah, a fine heart, at least. Wasted on an old girl. No, I don't care for dancing, as you bloody well know."

Makino frowned. _Dancing?_ But before she could ask, Emiko paused suddenly, and seemed for a moment to look into nothing, her gaze fixed on something behind Makino's shoulder. Then, turning her head, brow furrowing sharply, "What happened to the music?"

Makino blinked. "What?"

Emiko drew a sudden breath. Then, her eyes clearing, as though coming back to herself, "What?" she asked, quietly.

Something knotted in her gut, lodged like a fist between her ribs, and Makino paused. She was familiar with daydreams, but this seemed different, somehow.

The mop slack between her fingers, "Is everything okay, Mistress?"

The change was abrupt; so much that it left a visible impression in the air. One moment she was looking at Makino, seeming perplexed, and with her next breath the harsh light returned to her eyes, like a sheet of ice sliding down a rocky slope.

And levelling that sharp gaze on Makino, "You'll be running this joint one day," she snapped, matter-of-fact. "So don't be a damn fool. Get married early, and have more than one brat, so if one of them goes out to sea to get themselves killed, you'll still have someone to take over the place when you retire."

When she dusted off her apron it looked to Makino like she was trying to wipe her hands clean, although she hadn't touched anything wet. And seeming to realise it herself, Emiko stared at her palms, before curling her fingers towards them and letting them drop.

Then, lifting her eyes, cold flint and North Blue's waters, "Stories worth writing novels about are rarely worth living, Makino. Remember that. You only have this one life, so live it wisely."

Before she could offer a response, she'd turned for the stairs leading to her apartments above the bar, removing her apron and tossing it on the counter. Makino watched her go, unease sitting suddenly heavy on her chest; the sense that there was something she was supposed to have realised, but when she grasped for it, it slipped through her fingers.

But then the weight lifted, plucked off her heart by the surprise that sparked, when Emiko put the confiscated paperback down beside the discarded apron. She was giving it back? She never gave her novels back. As far as Makino knew, she used the paper to stoke the ovens during the winter months.

Not that it had ever stopped her from getting new ones whenever the opportunity presented itself, but she always mourned the ones she lost  _—_ the ones she'd dog-eared beyond recognition, and scribbled notes in the margins; the ones whose covers were so wrinkled the bronze-tinged, bare skin of the hero had long since lost its lustre and appeal.

Which was why the gesture now seemed suddenly, staggeringly significant.

Gaze lingering on the worn cover, the dramatic embrace and yearning looks, Emiko loosed a soft snort. Then to Makino, "Don't give your heart to a man who'll never return, girl," she said, letting the book go as she made for the stairs. "Waiting is a fool's game, and you deserve better than that."

Then she was gone, leaving Makino alone in the common room, the mop in her hands forgotten as she stared at the yawning space left in Emiko's absence, the words a clanging echo in her head, surprisingly tender  _—_   _a_   _fool's game._

_And you, my fool girl._

 

—

 

Only when the sun had dipped down beyond the port and the bar had been opened for business was Makino able to slip free, her duties done for the night and whatever remaining hours were left stolen for herself.

Although the future proprietor of Party's, she wasn't old enough to work the night shift yet, and Emiko had been strict on that since the beginning; she had no immediate plans of actually letting Makino have a shot at serving drinks until she'd reached an appropriate age.

Straddling the windowsill of her bedroom, Makino swung her leg over the side with practised ease, one hand gripping the shawl wrapped around her shoulders and the other easing her down the sloping curve of the slated roof, the lantern dangling from her elbow yielding enough light so as not to trip over her own feet in the dark.

The trek from the tavern eased some of the jittery restlessness that had built up over the course of the day from her shoulders, and when she began the climb up the hill toward her favourite reading spot the slight exercise left her feeling herself again, after hours spent contemplating the future that loomed ahead, and the shadow of a woman who existed there; the one she feared she might become.

The muted din of conversation creeping out of Party's windows vanished behind her in the night, until the tavern was little more than a glowing speck among the other sleeping houses tucked around it, and the unassuming quiet of the chilly summer evening enveloped her whole.

Placing the lantern down, Makino settled beneath the tree, her back to the trunk and her knees pulled up to her chest. And drawing the shawl tighter around her shoulders to ward off the chill, she thumbed the book open, searching out the place where she'd left off, a familiar excitement kindling as eager eyes scanned the page, the faded letters thrown in stark relief in the soft glow of the lantern-light _—_

__—_ is that truly what you want?'_

_The smile he gave her held no mirth. 'Any man you choose, I will loathe, for he will not be me. Yet if he makes you smile _—_ if he gives you the life you deserve, I will love him as a brother, for he has done what I could not.'_

_She shook her head vigorously. 'There will be no other! I will never love a man if he is not you,' she swore, grasping his hands in hers._

_'You must, dearest,' he spoke the words reverently. 'For my return is unlikely.'_

_Her shoulders shook, but she steeled herself, a defiant glint in her eyes, blue as ice in the silver moonlight. 'I will wait for you,' she vowed._

_'Sara _—_ '_

_'I will wait.' She was resolute, her shoulders squared to punctuate her words. 'However unlikely your return, I will wait, for I will not have anyone else.'_

_He looked at her for a long time, before finally leaning close to press a tender kiss to her forehead. 'I cannot make your decisions for you, but I plead with you, my love, to forget about me. Do not waste your life waiting for a dead man.' The words were a fierce whisper against her brow, and she fought her shaking knees from giving out beneath her._

_Then he was turning away, the warmth of his body gone, leaving her hollow as the breeze from the sea cleaved through her like a knife. His familiar frame was rigid as he walked the path towards his ship, and his shape became unclear and blurred as more tears obscured her vision._

_Falling to her knees, the sobs were quick to follow. A riptide washing over her, stealing the air from her lungs _—__

A drop of water blotted the ink, and Makino touched her fingertips to her cheek, realising with a start that she was the culprit. She blinked at the sight, the moisture seeping into the brittle paper, incredulous. She'd read this book several times, without trouble  _—_ knew most of it by heart, and could recite this particular scene from the top of her head. But for some reason she couldn't stop the tears now as they came, pushing against her eyes, clinging to her cheeks.

Or maybe she did know the reason, close to home as it sat now, the book suddenly heavier than its paper cover suggested, tucked between her raised knees and her heart.

_Waiting is a fool's game._

_And you deserve better than that._

Inhaling sharply through her nose, she snapped the book shut, steeling herself as she blinked her eyes free of the tears.

Glancing down at the cover, she turned it over in her hands. Old but cared for, having known more than one set of hands before it had made its way into her own, carried to Fuschia in the bottom of a crate having seeped through with sea-water. She'd bought it cheap, the pages curling from salt and moisture, and had read it twice in one week, and had since spent an impressive amount of time running her fingers over the cover, and dreaming up stories of her own. She'd loved the tragedy  _—_ the sweet heartache, and the gap left for her imagination to fill, of whether or not the captain ever did come back for Sara.

Now, though...

Head dropping back against the trunk, Makino rested her gaze on the dark swathe of sea and sky in the distance, the map of stars partially obscured by a pale cover of clouds curling along the horizon. No ships in sight, although she hadn't expected to find any.

And she wondered suddenly what it was like, constantly on the lookout for sails on the horizon, barely daring to hope but unable to do anything else. Years of waiting, and for what?

Shoulders sinking with a sigh, she scrubbed the heel of her hand across her eyes, before pushing off the ground, grabbing the lantern as she went. She wasn't going to sit there sobbing like a child, mourning some memory that wasn't even hers to mourn  _—_ like her Mistress expected her to do, no doubt.

The paperback pressed between her palms, she felt her resolve as it came to settle. She adored all her worlds, each and every one of the pocket-universes stacked in her bookcase, on her desk in her room  _—_ and those she kept from prying eyes, wrapped in the shadows and cobwebs under her bed. But _this_ was her world, too. Fuschia, in all its mundane, lethargic glory. And if she was going to live in it, she couldn't keep waiting  _—_ not for anyone to come for her, or to sweep her off her feet.

If she did, Makino had no doubt she really would end up like her old Mistress, heart too hard for small amusements, and watching the sea like she wanted nothing more than for the tide to come in, if only to take her with it.

 


	2. grief, like ink that stains the page

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So we're making a 4-year jump here, putting Makino at 20. She doesn't have a confirmed age in canon, but given that she runs a bar, I figured it was a reasonable guess.

Even during its closing hours, Makino couldn't remember Party's ever being this empty.

Stepping into the centre of the common room, footsteps a hollow echo in the quiet and the floorboards creaking softly under her gentle weight, she allowed her eyes to sweep the length of the room  _—_ first once, and then again, and tried to find something familiar in the ghost of her home that sat, an eerie visitor in every odd shadow and slant of light.

Hers, now; every glass and bottle and chair, and down to the nails hammered into the walls. And she'd often imagined what it would be like, running the business on her own, not bossed around and made to do chores, but her own boss, and every chore of her own choice.

But looking at it now, she felt nothing like the responsible adult she was supposed to be  _—_ the responsible adult that, from this moment onward, she had no choice but to be. Instead she'd never felt more like a child, infinitely small and trespassing where she wasn't allowed; like when she'd used to crouch on the landing, nightdress pulled over her knees and listening to the laughter and conversation creeping up from the common room below.

She'd often fallen asleep like that, curled in on herself on the stairs, lulled to sleep by the sounds she'd grown up with, as familiar to her as anything. Sea shanties and tavern songs, and the laughter that followed a good story, details exaggerated with drink but the telling earnest with feeling.

And on the following mornings she would wake in her bed, blankets tucked around her, and she'd venture downstairs expecting a scolding, but Emiko had never offered so much as a comment.

The thought was suddenly too much to take, but when she sucked a breath past her teeth it wasn't relief she found, and the pang of hurt that followed pushed a strangled sob up her throat.

Scrubbing furiously at her eyes, Makino forced herself to calm down; to focus past the barbed vice of grief wrapped around her chest and windpipe. Instead, turning her eyes to the room, she rooted for a foothold  _—_ anything to distract her from the ever-pressing deluge.

But nothing looked familiar. The walls seemed further apart, somehow  _—_ the tables and chairs almost awkwardly large, and the counter looming ominously in the distance; the shelves behind it silent sentinels, and a hundred eyes watching her from the row of dusty bottles.

It was Party's, but it felt nothing like the bar she'd grown up running in and out of, shoes dirty and the hem of her skirt a muddied mess, a book tucked under her arm. The sense of loss sat, a hollow yawn in the air, something vital leeched from its heart, leaving little more than a husk  _—_ and barely that.

 _Empty,_ she thought, the feeling so profound it left an itch under her skin.

She allowed her fingers to dance absentmindedly across the nearest table, a grimace pulling at her features as a thick shadow of dust reached back, clinging like a mourning sigh to her fingertips. But no one had touched the place in over a week, and so the dust-ghosts had come to settle, making themselves comfortable on shelves and tables, glasses and plates.

Emiko's passing had been abrupt, and had caught the village off guard; Makino most of all, or at least ostensibly. But thinking back, she'd known it was coming, since that late afternoon four years ago, the barest hints of a long-desired story shared, quite out of the blue, when her Mistress had blinked herself out of a different age, and asked quietly what had happened to the music.

 _When the mind goes_ , the doctor had told Makino, an old sigh clinging to the words, _it doesn't matter how strong the body._

The signs had been small things, in the beginning. She'd forget  _—_ words and phrases, recipes and things she'd said. But it had been a rapid descent from small instances of forgetfulness to what had ailed her in the end; the days when she'd thought she was a woman years younger, and Party's a different bar. And there'd been days she'd laugh for no other reason than because she felt like it, and sing under her breath as she worked. But those had been good days.

The days when she'd forget who Makino was had been the worst.

Her last day had been a day like that. Makino had brought a cup of tea to her room, nothing else to offer but her small attempts at comfort, and the eyes that had regarded her from the doorway had been new  _—_ the look on her face quietly marvelling as she'd set the cup down on her nightstand.

 _What a sweet thing you are,_ Emiko had said, the rare compliment offered seemingly without effort, and Makino hadn't been able to hold back the tears.

She'd taken that old hand in hers; had pressed her small palm against the rough callouses. And for all that she'd known better  _—_ that she'd witnessed enough mornings like this to know what the outcome would be, she couldn't help it.  _Don't you know who I am?_

Emiko had looked at her, eyes dulled a soft sky-blue.  _Who are you, girl?_

_It's me. It's Makino._

_Makino?_

She'd rolled the name around her tongue, but there'd been no spark of recognition in her eyes. And then  _—_   _I'm tired_ , she'd said, voice little more than a murmur.  _I feel like I've been tired for a long time._

 _Tell him,_ she'd told Makino then, and in that moment her grip had been a familiar vice, bringing to mind an endless number of pinched ears, but other things, too  _—_ rough palms wrapped around her own, showing her how to use a pistol. A cooking knife tucked between her fingers, and clear instructions, accompanied by a sharp gaze as Makino tried her best not to quail at the gutted fish on the counter.

 _Tell him that I was tired,_ she sighed, before an odd, wistful smile pulled her features into something Makino didn't recognise.  _But that_   _I wanted to wait a little longer._

 _I got a kid,_ she'd added, before Makino had been able to dredge up a protest.  _A girl. Not mine, but _—_ sort of mine. Dark hair, like him. Tell him that, will you? He'd like her. A wee thing still, but I reckon she'll grow up well._

Then, that same, eerie smile on her face, she'd closed her eyes, and hadn't opened them again.

She recoiled from the memory now, fresh as it still was in her mind. Her hands scrambling, looking for a pulse, and finding nothing.  _Mistress?_

Then, a quiet, choked word from the back of her throat, often felt but never before uttered __—_ Mama!_

Makino clenched her eyes shut, stubborn tears still threatening, and tried to root her mind in the certainty that her mother  _—_  and she had been that, no matter what she'd called her  _—_ would have boxed her ears if she'd caught her crying. She could almost hear the voice, cleaving through the room; that no-nonsense tone that flung out like a bare-handed slap _—_

_I don't want any tears over my passing, you hear? The last thing this place needs is a weepy girl running it. Get over yourself!_

"I know," Makino said, a choked laugh dragged with a breath through her nose. "You raised me better than that."

Wiping her eyes dry, she steeled herself  _—_ righted her shoulders and pushed a breath past her lips, and when she felt like she could breath again, she rolled up her sleeves and got to work.

With all the arrangements and preparations for the funeral, the bar had seen a whole week without business, partly out of respect to Emiko herself, but also to allow Makino the time to adjust. But now the funeral rites were over and done with, and with death left for greener pastures, it was well past the time to reopen Party's for business.

Makino spared a fond thought to the fact that Emiko would have been outraged at the mere insinuation that the bar had been out of business in the first place, funeral or no, and if she'd been alive to witness it, the entire village would no doubt have heard what she'd thought about that.

The smile it sparked was wistful, but tinged with not a small amount of pride. It would be her first time handling the bar on her own tonight, and she was determined to do a good job, if not for her old Mistress' sake, then simply to prove to the rest of Fuschia that she was more than capable of running Party's by herself. There'd been whispers during the funeral and in the days following; murmured concerns about the heir apparent, meaning Makino. No ill intent behind it, she knew  _—_ after all, she was the one who'd spent the better part of her childhood with her nose stuck in a book, having barely had time to lift it to look at the world at her feet.

But she wasn't that girl anymore. Or maybe she was, at least in part, but that didn't mean she didn't know what her responsibilities were.

Her books would have to wait, she knew. At least until she'd gotten settled, there'd be no sneaking off to read in the middle of the day. And there'd be no escaping to the sanctuary of her novels whenever the going got tough, either  _—_ she was her own boss now, a legal adult, and she needed to start focusing on her own life rather than the lives of fictional characters, however more tempting.

A knock against the outer wall then, and what sounded distinctly like wood splintering under pressure, dragged Makino out of her thoughts, and she dropped the chair she'd been holding in surprise as she spun towards the bat-wing doors. But catching sight of the source of the noise, her eyes softened, and a small, patient smile tugged at the corner of her mouth.

Garp had sense enough to look ashamed for putting another crack in her wall, and he grumbled an apology under his breath as he shouldered his considerable shape through the doors and into the common room.

"Garp-san," Makino greeted. "It's good to see you again."

"Makino," Garp returned the greeting, grin stretching wide across his face; a sight that sent most people running, but Makino had nothing but fond memories of Monkey D. Garp, and found the grin no more intimidating than the man sporting it.

And it was a nice change from the smiles that everyone else in Fuschia thought it prudent to greet her with these days; grief and sympathy in equal measure. She'd had enough of those to last her a lifetime.

"Makino!"

The new greeting leaped into the quiet, a sunburst of gleeful sound, and Makino looked down at the six-year-old by Garp's legs, a smile blooming at the one she found on his face. A riot of boundless energy and chatter, Monkey D. Luffy was a dearly welcome distraction from the week she'd had so far.

"Hello to you, too, Luffy," she laughed, finding the sound of it suddenly within her reach. Then, lifting her eyes back to his grandfather, "Would you two like anything to drink?" she asked as she moved towards the bar, Luffy scampering at her heels to climb up onto one of the recently upturned stools.

Garp shook his head. "Not for me. The kid'll probably want some juice, though," he said.

Makino nodded, and when she bent to retrieve a glass  _—_ "So," Garp began, seating himself at the bar, the stool protesting under his weight. "How're you holding up?"

She offered the glass to Luffy, who eagerly chugged the contents down, before handing it back for a refill. "Fine, all things considered," she said, but when her smile felt too brittle to be convincing, let it drop. "It's going to be hell the first few weeks, though."

Garp raised a bushy brow at that, and Makino pursed her mouth with a smile. "I'm a proper tavern wench now, Garp-san. The language comes with the business," she teased, only half-joking. She'd entertained the idea, if only out of respect to her foul-mouthed mother. Not to mention, it would give the place a little more character than if she remained a mousy, shy girl with little to say.

Garp scoffed, but the wry smile on his face betrayed his attempted distaste. "That old bat actually imparted something, huh?" he asked, with a shake of his head. "And you who were such a sweet, polite kid. Unlike this one," he said, pulling on the ear of his grandson, who gave a short yelp, followed by a sharp protest as Garp added, "who doesn't seem to know how to follow simple orders."

"Hmm, yes, I was a real treasure in my early years," Makino mused, brow lifting. "I don't know about you, Garp-san, but I seem to remember more than one occasion when I was all but dragged by the back of my shirt to do the chores I'd skipped out on. And I've gotten my fair share of boxed ears." She flicked her earlobe for emphasis, a small, soft smile perched at the corner of her mouth.

Garp's snort was fond, and not even attempting to hide it. "Maybe. But you turned out alright in the end," he said, a smile of his own tugging at his whiskered mouth as he regarded her for a moment. At length, he added, "She'd be proud of you, you know."

Her smile tried to be preening, although Makino found it wavering under her attempts, but, "I know," she murmured, fingers tracing a crack in the counter-top. Then, heaving a breath, "I know."

A silence of old ease pooled, broken at intervals by the soft slurping-noises from Luffy as he downed his third glass of juice.

"Garp-san," Makino began then, fingers drumming softly against the edge of the counter, her gaze fixed on the worn wooden surface.

"Hmm?"

She levelled the full weight of her gaze on him, hoping the sight was compelling enough to lure out a sliver of truth; she'd been told her eyes could sway the tides to change, if she put her mind to it. Even Garp himself had admitted to the same. "You knew Mistress Emiko a long time. I was just wondering  _—_ there was something she said to me before she..." She trailed off, lips pursing as she searched for the right words.

But Garp's brows only raised in silent question, and so Makino made the plunge. "Did she ever tell you there was someone she was waiting for?" she asked, gauging his reaction.

And as she'd suspected  _—_ if she'd suspected anything at all  _—_ his brows furrowed, a downward slant so sudden, it spoke volumes in itself.

A sigh dragged loose of his chest then, and he dropped his gaze to the counter-top, and away from Makino's. "Told you about that, did she? Didn't think she ever would. Private as they came, that one."

Makino shook her head, and watched his gaze lift from where it had fallen. "She didn't say anything specific. She just _—_ she made it clear she was waiting for someone. A man, but that's really all I know." She gave a shrug of her shoulders. "Everything else is just rumours and speculations."

Garp snorted. "Rumours," he muttered, as though to himself. Then, regarding her closely for a moment, "Old girl really didn't tell you anything?"

"She gave me a message to pass on," Makino said, "but I don't know to whom."

At that, Garp chortled  _—_ a keenly humourless laugh that reminded her, startlingly, of the woman in question. "Died thinking he'd show up one day, huh? Mah, 'course she did. Stubborn girl," he grumbled.

Makino frowned. Then, "You know who it is, don't you?" she asked, voice tinged with unabashed curiosity  _—_ and only a hint of mild accusation.

Garp's expression was too severe to be called soft. "Oh, I know alright. I told her off about it way back and she tossed me out on my ass. Never did take well to opposition."

She pursed her lips, hiding a smile. "You didn't approve?"

 _"Approve?"_ Somehow, he made it sound as though she'd asked him if he'd ever considered a career in piracy  _—_ a thought that seemed only too fitting, when he added, "Bastard was a damn pirate, and a bad one to boot. Idiot woman could have done better in her sleep." Despite his attempts at gruff reluctance, his words were tinged with what Makino recognised as remorse. "Much better," he muttered, the last bit to himself.

Even a child could see there was history there, and her hopeless heart would have leaped from her chest at the offer of scraps, but the look on Garp's face made her curb her enthusiasm  _—_ and her tongue.

And anyway, she had a feeling he wouldn't have told her even if she had asked, and so she settled for a different approach. "You don't think he'll come back."

Garp looked at her, an entirely knowing smile shaping his features into something wry and fond. "I have a feeling that if I say 'no', that damn imagination of yours is going to twist it around to a 'maybe', and so I'm not gonna say anything at all."

Makino pressed her lips together to stifle her smile. And oh, it felt _good_ smiling, after the week she'd had. "Just because I read, Garp-san, doesn't mean I don't have a proper grasp of reality," she countered. "I asked for your opinion, didn't I? I don't know enough facts to make my own yet."

His sigh sounded suddenly old. "Too damn clever for your own good, I swear." At her carefully demure look, he shook his head. "Fine. I'm going to tell you the same thing I told Emiko - pirates ain't saints. Ain't much else but crooks, most of 'em, and there's the truth. Chances are, he had other girls in other ports. Maybe he's with one them now. But I didn't think he was gonna come back then, and I don't think he's ever gonna come back. Shit, I don't even think the bastard's still alive. Devil knows I've tried tracking him down more than once."

A snort, then; a hard, humourless thing. "If he's still out there somewhere, he's doing a damn good job hiding his thieving ass."

Makino arched a brow. "You told Emiko that?"

"Those exact words. Well, give or take, but I got myself a black eye for it. Damn woman always had a temper."

"She had hope," Makino said. "Not everyone can say the same in this day and age."

Garp cut her a look. "Yeah, but she also had no one but _you_ in the end. Shouldn't be like that. Not for a woman like her."

The words were off her tongue before she could rein them back, "She had you, didn't she?"

But if he found the implication too private, Garp seemed too caught up in his thoughts to remark on it. He was quiet for a long beat, and when he spoke his eyes were strangely distant. "Yeah. Guess she did."

Makino sensed there was more to that statement, and tucked it away for later perusal. She was trying to prove that she didn't have her head in the clouds all the time, and for that to be even remotely convincing she was going to have to keep her imagination on a tight leash. Books were one thing  _—_ real-life drama was something else entirely; a treacherous mire for young and impressionable minds to linger over-long.

Turning her gaze from Garp, she shifted her attention to Luffy, who seemed to have fallen asleep, sprawled halfway across the counter and with the glass still in his hands. She shook her head at the sight.

"Makino."

Her eyes lifted back to the marine seated across the counter, sharp gaze fixed on his sleeping grandson. He didn't look at her as he spoke, "She probably already told you this, but I'm gonna go ahead and repeat it."

She frowned, wondering where he was going, but wasn't given the chance to ask before he continued, "You're a sweet girl, and you'll make some poor smitten bastard damn happy some day," Garp began, the corner of his mouth lifting slightly at the sight of the drooling boy, soft snores pressed into the bar-top.

Then that same gaze swivelled back to hers, and she was startled by the intensity sitting in it. "Just make sure it's a man who won't consider the thought of leaving you. You deserve better than that."

_Waiting is a fool's game, Makino._

She opened her mouth to protest, but was quick to close it again, nodding as her gaze, too, fell on Luffy. She didn't know much about the boy's family  _—_ no one did, to Makino's knowledge, and Garp was impressively tight-lipped about the subject. All anyone knew was that Luffy's father had set out to sea before the boy had been born, and that Garp had been his legal guardian since birth. Even his mother was a mystery, but no one in Fuschia asked questions, and Makino had often wondered if it was because they all knew, but chose to keep it a secret for some inexplicable reason.

"And while we're on the subject," Garp continued then, drawing her attention back from where it had wandered, "Whatever sap's lucky enough to marry you, make sure he doesn't have a shred of adventure in him. Genes, you know. Can't fight 'em. Soon you've got yourself a kid who wants to be the next Pirate King, and I'll be damned if I have to chase him down and drag his ass to prison."

Makino tucked a thoughtful hum against the inside of her cheek. "I appreciate your concern, Garp-san. I promise I'll try my best to find a man who's indolent, characterless, and without a single adventurous bone in his body," she said, eyes gleaming.

She was glad when Garp laughed, some of the weight lifting off his brow. "Atta girl." Then, with a look that was all too telling, even before he said, "Speaking of kids  _—_ you wouldn't mind watching this one for a few days, would you? I've been called back to Headquarters."

Her sigh was a long-suffering thing of fond exasperation; she was used to Garp's out-of-the-blue requests. "You know I can't say no, Garp-san. Although your timing couldn't have been worse."

Garp rubbed the back of his neck, his grin sheepish. "Yeah, I know. But I seem to be getting called back more frequently these days. I'm looking to ask Dadan for help, but she's got her hands full already."

"Don't worry about it." Makino waved him off with the dish-rag. "I'll keep an eye on him. He's well-behaved as long as his stomach is full, and I think I can manage that."

Garp nodded as he rose to his feet, sparing a last, fond look at his snoring grandson, before turning his gaze back to Makino, a mischievous twinkle in his eyes. "Think of it as practice."

She laughed, an entirely startled sound. Although looking at Luffy, the prospect wasn't all that off-putting, Makino was surprised to realise. "You mean for my future, lazy and unadventurous children?" she asked, tone musing, as Garp made to leave, and, "Who _you_ will be babysitting regularly when you retire, might I add!" she called after his retreating form.

Garp guffawed as he pushed through the doors, booming laughter drifting back through the slits, and leaving an imprint of something other that grief on the quiet. And in the wake of his warm mirth, Makino found a moment to breathe, for once without feeling like her chest was about to cave in from the pressure.

Turning her gaze to Luffy snoring softly on the bar beside her, blissfully unawares, Makino manoeuvred around the counter to lift the small weight into her arms, before making for the stairs. She'd make him something to eat and bring it up to him later. Her first priority was to get the bar up and running.

When she placed him down on the mattress in one of the guest rooms, he stirred. "Ma-chan?"

Makino threaded her fingers through his hair. "Get some rest, Luffy. I'm going to open the bar."

His next words were wrapped around a yawn, "Can I come downstairs?"

She considered the idea  _—_ weighed having to keep an eye on him against the potential loneliness of having the whole establishment to herself. "If you promise to stay put you can come down and eat dinner later, okay?"

Luffy nodded drowsily, already well on his way back to sleep. "Gramps?"

Makino pressed a quick kiss against his brow, tugging the covers loose to tuck them around him. "He'll be back in a few days. Now sleep."

He did, and leaving the door ajar, she padded down the staircase, refastening her apron as she went, fingers plucking nervously at the fabric. She'd sewn it herself for the occasion, the colour a pretty, cornflower blue, and had fretted over which blouse to wear for a whole hour that morning before she'd settled on one; soft cream with lace trim along the sleeves and neck. She'd selected it with care, along with a new skirt, and her favourite kerchief; the one with the blue and red flowers. Nothing her Mistress ever would have worn, preferring rougher fabrics, and cuts as no-nonsense as she was, no patience or understanding for even the necessity of lace trim and flowers of any sort, and no care for how she came off.

But Makino cared. And the whole village might have known her from infancy, but she wanted to make a good impression  _—_ the _right_ impression, for all she'd told Garp about being a proper tavern wench. No, Makino would do it her own way, if she was going to do it at all.

It was long past the hour Emiko would have had the bar open, and she knew some of the villagers were eager for a drink by now, with the noonday sun beginning its tentative descent towards the horizon. And getting to work, she wiped down the tables and did a quick sweep of the floor, squeezing in a last inventory check before declaring Party's open for business.

And it went smoothly from there  _—_ surprisingly so. The handful of people who stopped by offered their gratitude rather than their condolences, and some of the weight left by her Mistress' passing seemed to physically lift from the room, prompting a swell of something that felt distinctly like accomplishment in her breast.

 _I can do this,_ she thought, as she moved between the tables, a tray of glasses balanced on her palm and her steps quick and certain.

But her sense of accomplishment wouldn't last long, as it was only shortly after she'd served her first customers and was fretting over a glass she'd accidentally dropped, that the cry reached her ears _—_

" _ **Pirates! Pirates at the docks!"**_

 


	3. the deckled edges of the unexpected

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Enter: Shanks, looking like he stepped right off the cover of a bodice-ripper.
> 
> Seriously, though.

_—_  " _ **Pirates! Pirates at the docks!"**_

Eyes flying open, her body's knee-jerk reaction was to push her to her feet, but in her hurry to rise from her crouch amidst the broken glass Makino knocked her head against the edge of the counter, prompting a dizzying jolt of pain that shuddered through her, before settling with a pang of nausea in her gut.

Dragging a hiss past her teeth, her hands flew up to press against the stinging spot on the crown of her head, vision blurring slightly, and she blinked rapidly to readjust it. The shrieking scrape of chairs being pushed back clawed a hole in the quiet, and the four patrons present in the common room were on their feet as well, one having poked his head out the doors to investigate, and the other three looking like they wanted to follow his example. That, or jump out the nearest window and make a run for it.

Frowning through the pain, her mind leaped to the possibilities that presented themselves, creating various scenarios, and not one of them with a positive outcome. Then, frantic thoughts veering off their chosen path, towards the little boy sleeping right above her head, and Makino was fretting in earnest, hands suddenly itching to grab onto something  _—_ _anything_   _—_ to defend herself.

She spun around, eyes seeking some kind of makeshift weapon, when the tell-tale sound of the bat-wing doors being forcibly pushed open reached her ears, and she spun back _—_

 _—_ only to find herself alone in the bar.

There was a beat of impressive silence where all she did was blink, before realisation hit her, followed by the sensation of her stomach bottoming out. And she didn't know whether to be furious with her customers or afraid for her life, but settled on something in between as she tried to decide her next course of action.

Left on her own without so much as a backward glance, she figured she could forget about relying on anyone protecting her, which meant she would have to defend herself and Luffy both. But with what? And against _what?_ Garp often spoke of pirate raids, enough to have made her learn to tune out his ranting, but now Makino wished she'd paid more attention to his lectures as the questions presented themselves, stumbling over each other in her mind. Where would they go first? What kind of pirates were they? Treasure hunters? _Slavers?_

Another thought followed suit, snapping at the heels of the first, that they might not be looking for treasure at all  _—_ or rather, that men used to taking what they wanted weren't likely to stop at coins and riches, and suddenly a fear so potent she'd never known its like pushed its way up her throat, realising with a sinking heart the position she was in.

A young woman, all alone, and a crew who'd been gods only knew how long without shore leave. She'd read enough books to know how this scenario usually unfolded, but there was no suave hero to swoop in at the very last moment to save her, and the chill left by the thought, creeping in to fill the cracks shooting through the safety so long offered by her novels and her imagination, made it suddenly hard to breathe.

Her limbs felt like lead, but panic pushed her into action, her decision made  _—_ Luffy first, and above all else, the certainty enough to get her moving, even as the suffocating fear of what they might do to her threatened to root her heels to the floor. Death suddenly seemed like the kinder alternative, and the realisation lodged with a startled sob in her throat.

But she'd barely managed two steps towards the stairs before the doors swung open again, raucous laughter swallowing the softly singing whine of the old floorboards and freezing Makino solidly in her tracks.

Her eyes flew to the doorway, wide with unconcealed fright as she took in the men piling into Party's common room. Just how many she couldn't say for sure, but it had to be more than a dozen, a dark wave cresting against the quiet of a once-peaceful afternoon, the sun at their backs elongating their shadows and casting the entire room in sudden darkness.

Panic still the ruler of her actions, Makino found herself backing away, muscles strung taut with fright to the point of aching. She could hear her own heart thundering in her ears  _—_ could feel her lungs struggling to suck in enough air to keep her breathing.

But most of all she could feel the unyielding wall at her back; the plain expanse of wood which promptly refused to allow her to sink through it. Fear sat sovereign at the forefront of her mind, having usurped every coherent thought and leaving a tumult of disharmonious chaos to contend with, but one still made it through  _—_ a thought which at any other time would have made her laugh.

Not a pirate in thirty years, and they'd chosen her first day of running the bar on her own to stop by.

She hadn't realised her eyes had clamped shut, but she found them snapping open as a voice cut through the din  _—_ commanding, yet tinged with amusement and unmistakable warmth.

"Easy, now! You're scaring the poor girl."

Makino blinked, fear giving way to surprise as her chest caved with a sudden breath, watching the source of the voice come into view, stepping around a tall man with a dark ponytail and amusement writ in the sharp lines of his face.

Her gaze travelled upwards, from sandal-clad feet to a loose, half-buttoned shirt threatening at indecency without apology, and broad shoulders draped with a dark cloak, the image invoking the cover of more than one well-thumbed paperback in the private library tucked beneath her bed. And it was difficult tearing her eyes away, her breath captive and her gaze fixed on his partially naked chest a beat too long, before it lifted to his face  _—_ or rather, his hair, and then she couldn't have looked away if she'd wanted to.

It was quite possibly the brightest, most eye-catching shade of red she'd ever seen on someone's clothing, let alone someone's head, most of it hidden beneath the wide brim of a worn straw hat. But she caught the way it curled against his jaw, a gentler truth against the sharp, chiselled line, above which sat a staggeringly attractive smile, visible even with the shadows provided by the hat, before he tipped it back smoothly, only to reveal a vicious set of scars bisecting his left eye.

And suddenly it was a feat deciding what to rest her eyes on, torn between the stark truth of the scars, and the undeniably handsome features sitting beneath.

"Good afternoon, Miss!" he greeted, kind eyes crinkling with the words, and the gesture tugging cheerfully at the scars. The warm-tinged lilt of his voice remained unchanged, and she felt a shiver dance up her spine at the sound of it. "I take it you're the owner? Shanks is the name, and this rowdy bunch is my crew. Pleased to make your acquaintance!"

And  _—_ surprisingly pleasant voice aside, she couldn't believe her ears, back still pressed flat against a wall that would let her go no further, terrified out of her wits and with no escape route in sight, and he was _pleased to make her_ _acquaintance?_

She had enough mind left to realise she was gaping, her shock too bright to be tempered with subtlety, and she thought she detected a chuckle from somewhere in the group of pirates at his back.

And then it wasn't shock that she was feeling  _—_ or fear, or even intrigue, all of them forgotten between one breath and the next as anger shoved up her chest, a wild, fiercely protective thing. It wasn't one she was prone to feeling, but one she recognised, still; a relic from a childhood that remembered keenly the mockery suffered for her bookish daydreaming, and for all that her heart was a quiet one, it had never taken ridicule well.

And she felt the righteous weight of her frustration now, taking in the crew of pirates who'd come into _her_ tavern  _—_ on her very first day, no less!  _—_ entirely unmindful of anything but themselves, crowding her doorway like cattle in the road and making a dirty, vicious mess of her pristine floors. And then having the audacity to laugh at her for her reaction?

A huff dragging loose of her, no oath voiced but sitting bright in the sound of it, she squared her shoulders, and the words were out of her mouth before she could drag them back _—_

"Well then can I get you anything, _Captain_ , or are you going to continue blocking my doorway and hindering my business?"

Realisation came crashing down on her a second later  _—_ along with an instantaneous regret that tore like a scream through her head.

All those years spent listening to Emiko's tricks of the trade, imparted with a demand that they be followed without question, and she'd sealed her fate on her very first day by snapping a greeting that was quite easily the furthest thing from the welcoming trill her old guardian had taught her, the one all self-respecting tavern wenches ought to know if they had even half a mind for business  _—_ or regard for their own health.

Of course, Emiko herself had never bothered, to Makino's knowledge, but her Mistress had been a force to be reckoned with. Makino was neither a force, or anything that required reckoning.

And she could swear she saw her life flash before her eyes as Garp's voice thundered in her ears, reminding her rather vividly of the ruthlessness of pirates  _—_ that the wrong remark might earn you a bullet through your head before you could even claim your breath to beg for forgiveness. And as she took in the sword hanging at the redhead's waist  _—_ and the cheerful assortment of weapons carried by pretty much every single individual in the group of pirates flanking him  _—_ Makino was fairly certain she was going to die. Or at the very least, pass out where she stood.

Then the captain threw his head back _—_

 _—_ and _laughed._

The unexpected reaction took her so thoroughly by surprise, if she hadn't been pressed flush against the wall behind her Makino was sure she would have sat right down on her ass in pure bewilderment. And his laughter invited others to join it, until his whole crew were laughing with him, the sound of their collective mirth rising to fill every available crevice of space, until there was barely room left for thought.

The only one not participating in the rousing chorus of merriment was the tall man at the redhead's immediate right, whose only visible reaction was an amused quirk of the lips.

And observing the spectacle unfolding before her, Makino didn't know whether to laugh with them or burst into tears.

Finally, the captain brought his gaze back to hers, a grin splitting his scarred face. He'd stopped laughing, but she found it echoed on his features, the memory of it seeming to cling to his whole person, as though his very existence had been hewn from the sound.

"Oh, I _like_ you," he declared with unbridled delight, before turning to his crew. "It's decided  _—_ we're staying!"

A chorus of agreement rose in the immediate wake of the order, their earlier mirth still bright in the sound, and just like that, they began seating themselves about the room, chatting amicably among themselves as they arranged and re-arranged tables and chairs to suit their needs; as though nothing out of the ordinary had transpired, and they were nothing more than normal patrons in a bar on a perfectly ordinary day.

Makino took in the sight with wide eyes, mouth still hanging open and mind having gone curiously blank.

"Miss?"

Tearing her gaze away from the common room of her tavern, now filled to the brim with pirates, Makino forced them to focus on the man leaning his weight casually against the bar, the gesture so strikingly natural it almost made it seem like the thing had been built specifically with him in mind. It was an ease that suggested a personality used to claiming room for himself  _—_ not carelessly, but without shame regardless, and that made her feel for one staggering moment like _she_ was the odd one out.

And when she lifted her eyes to look at him, aware now of how much closer he was standing, she felt suddenly, terribly small, as he was indeed a lot taller than she'd first thought.

Some of her earlier fear crept back from where it had been pushed away in favour of a whole array of other concerns, but it refused to be ignored now, taking in the sight of him, looming large on the other side of the counter.

He cocked his head to the side, considering. Thick lashes framed his eyes, searching her face with a shrewdness that seemed palpable, somehow. He had really nice eyes, the thought struck her suddenly, seeming punctuated by the slight skip of her heart in her chest.

"Everything alright?" he asked, and even though she knew better, she almost thought she heard a note of concern in his voice.

 _Pirate _—__ _he's a **pirate,** Makino. Pirates have no mind for other people's feelings. Act professional. _ "Yes, ah _—_ everything is fine. Just fine. Peachy. Can I get you anything?" she repeated, but more politely this time, eyes darting nervously to the crew at his back. It had been fine with her previous customers, as there had only been four of them, but now there had to be at least two dozen men in her bar, and all of them pirates. Part of her felt like laughing at the miserable luck she was having.

"Whatever you have will suffice," he said then, dragging her eyes back, only to find him smiling. "We're all tired from a long voyage, and I don't think anyone will care exactly what you serve them, as long as it contains alcohol."

Still spoken with that inexplicable ease she couldn't quite reconcile with the sight of him, or with everything she'd thought she knew about pirates, Makino found it hard to respond. It was as though part of her was waiting for the other shoe to drop  _—_ for him to show his true colours, but the smile on his face hinted at a genuine good humour, and the way he was watching her didn't suggest that he had anything darker than drinks in mind.

At last, she managed a nod of mute consent, biting her lip as she turned to the storage room. _Barrels _—__ she'd stocked more barrels in there last week, and there should be enough. At least she hoped that was the case, but wondered briefly, and a twinge morbidly, what they would do if she ran out. She could handle one dismayed customer, maybe even two.

Two dozen dismayed _pirates,_ on the other hand...

"So, what's your name?"

The question greeted her as she carried a barrel out of the storeroom, and she blinked in surprise, her response too startled to be swallowed in time, "Pardon?"

His eyes curved with something she didn't have a name for. Or if she knew it, she was too distracted by what it did to his face to search for it. "Your name," he repeated, voice still that same, hearth-warm cadence. "I told you mine, now it's only common courtesy that you tell me yours."

 _Common courtesy?_ She frowned, at a sudden loss of what to make of his remarks  _—_ of him even more so. But, "Makino," she said at length, as she deposited the barrel beside the one that was already there. Sweat clung to her back beneath her blouse, and she tried not to focus on how rumpled she must look. Somehow, the thought was a curiously insistent thing.

The smile hadn't left his face. "We're making you uneasy."

It wasn't a question, and she huffed a short laugh, surprising herself. "It's not every day pirates come to visit," she retorted, eyes darting towards the doorway. No one had entered after the pirates, and she wondered idly what the other villagers were doing. _Probably gone into hiding, the cowards._

The man  _—_   _Shanks,_ she thought, and with some surprise; the name had stuck, despite the whirling chaos of impressions surrounding their initial encounter  _—_ seemed to find her unease entirely amusing. "You can relax, you know," he told her. "My men would never hurt the one who serves them."

Makino wondered if he'd take well to her meeting his remarks with incredulous laughter, but stifled it just in case. But, "How reassuring," she deadpanned, and with a bit more cheek than was probably wise as she filled a glass, sliding it across the counter towards him before reaching for another. The near mechanical motion helped put her mind at ease somewhat.

Shanks only grinned, nodding his head in silent thanks as he brought it to his lips, but before he could take a swig his eyes darted to the staircase, and, "The kid yours?" he asked.

At her questioning look, he nodded towards the stairs leading up to her apartments. "The footsteps are too light to be an adult's, so I'm guessing it's a child. And since you're the owner of this establishment, it would only be natural for you to live above it." A pause, and then he added, almost curiously, "You look a little too young to have a grown child, though."

She was about to open her mouth  _—_ to say what, she wasn't sure  _—_ when Luffy beat her to it, a noise of surprise slipping under the din as he appeared at the top of the stairs. Wide, startled eyes met hers, full of questions that would undoubtedly soon come rushing out of his mouth. He'd spent a lot of time in the bar growing up, much like Makino herself, and there had never been more than a handful customers present whenever he visited. A common room full of strangers had to set off some warning bells, even in a boy as oblivious as Monkey D. Luffy.

"Ma-chan?"

The note of fearful curiosity shook her out of her idle staring, and she was set on ushering him back to his room when he was suddenly at the bottom of the stairs, dark, owlish eyes swallowing his face as they fixed themselves on the pirate seated at Makino's bar.

He looked to Makino again, then back to the full establishment, and then at last to the sword hanging at the pirate's waist, too-wide eyes alighting suddenly with what Makino recognised as fascination, tinged with only the barest hint of awed fear.

_Oh no _—__

"Why do you have a sword?"

The man called Shanks grinned, seeming pleased by the question. "Why, because every respectable pirate needs a weapon, and mine is a sword," he explained, giving the hilt a fond pat, and Luffy's mouth dropped open before Makino had the chance to realise the grave mistake the pirate in question had just made.

_"You're a pirate!?"_

Makino sighed. "Luffy _—_ "

"Sure am! The name's Shanks."

The man's entirely too easygoing attitude wasn't helping her already frayed nerves, and she needed to get Luffy back upstairs before he got himself into trouble. Which, given the boy's penchant for anything and everything even associated with the word, was a far too likely outcome for her to ignore.

"Come on, Luffy," she tried, hoping the promise of food would do the trick. "Go back upstairs, and I'll bring you a plate."

But he wasn't even looking at her. "Are you the bad guys? Because Gramps says all pirates are bad guys with no morals. Do you have morals? Where did you come from? Are you going to hurt Ma-chan?" Makino reached for his shirt, but he eluded her grasp, scrambling up onto the stool next to Shanks with speed not natural for a six-year-old.

 _Then again_ , she thought woefully, as she considered the possibility of forcibly hauling him back up the stairs. Not all six-year-olds were raised by Garp.

Even standing upright on the stool, he barely reached Shanks' shoulder, and yet it didn't seem to deter him in the least, cheeks puffed up with sudden determination, and small features set in a fierce frown. "If you are, you better watch out, 'cause I'm gonna protect her!"

His chosen adversary, however, only looked amused.

"Lucky girl," Shanks laughed, with a wink at Makino. "But to answer your questions, kid  _—_ bad guys or good guys, you're going to have to make that decision for yourself. We've just arrived from a long voyage, and I certainly hope I still have my morals, as it would be a damn shame to have lost them. Hard to find once lost, you know? And as for the girl," and here he tossed Makino a startlingly charming smile, that dark gaze meeting hers for the briefest of moments and sending a shiver shooting up her spine, "I'll have you know I don't make a habit of hurting beautiful women, and I don't plan to start now."

Despite herself, the all too casual mention  _—_   _beautiful,_ and no one had ever called her beautiful in her life  _—_ had a startled blush erupting across her cheeks. And his laughter followed suit, not an unkind sound, although Makino felt very much like ducking her entire body behind the counter, if only to get out from under the teasing hold of those eyes.

"So...you're _not_ the bad guys?"

"Luffy," Makino tried again, a note of desperation creeping into her voice now, wondering how much patience the man possessed. "Don't bother the customers." _Especially when they're pirates. Pirates with weapons and bounties and gods only know what kind of 'morals'._

But Shanks surprised her by shaking his head, seeming entirely unruffled by the boy's antics. "Ah, it's of no consequence, my dear. I like the kid."

Then he turned his gaze back on her, too-clever eyes gleaming, dark-bright with that effortless good humour that tempted something warm and responsive to curl up behind her ribcage _—_

"Now, about those drinks...?"

 

—

 

It was well past sundown when she finally managed to wrestle the overly exited boy, half-asleep and still asking questions, up the stairs and into bed. And after checking to make sure he was comfortable  _—_ and still sleeping, so he couldn't sneak downstairs without her noticing  _—_ Makino hurried back down to the bar. Amicable or not, the pirates that still crowded her tavern made her jittery, and wary of leaving the common room unattended for long.

 _Although,_ her mind supplied, unhelpfully. If they wanted to rob her, what could she possibly do to stop them? And wouldn't they have done so by now, if that was indeed their intention?

Coming to a stop at the bottom of the stairs, everything seemed to be as she'd left it, and her sigh was a soft paradox of lamentation and relief. The captain was still seated at the bar, the tail-end of a roar of laughter suggesting that a joke had just been made, and she listened as his mirth descended, loud at first but trickling to something with softer edges as it came to settle, wedged between the talk and merriment in a breathless chuckle.

Catching sight of her from out of the corner of his eye, he turned his gaze on her where she stood, his grin widening, as though her presence alone was enough to inspire cheer.

She smiled back uneasily. She'd never met a pirate before in her life, and had been raised on Garp's stories about their cruelty and general lack of scruples. What was she supposed to think of this crew, all easy smiles and laughter and tall tales of their own?

She didn't even want to think about what Garp would have said, if he'd known  _—_ not just about the pirates, but the fact that Makino kept having to remind herself to keep her guard up around them. And what was worse, that she was sorely tempted to join them in their laughter  _—_ that there was a part of her that wanted to let go more than anything, because with the week she'd had she needed to laugh like she needed to _breathe._

But Garp's voice kept coming back to her, despite her attempts at keeping it out, reminding her in no uncertain terms these men were _pirates._ Not simple sailors or merchants, but wanted criminals; and for a reason, common thievery being only the mildest charge on a list that could well be endless.

_Murder, rape, take your pick. It's all the same lottery of evil._

Her nose wrinkled at the thought. Somehow, she couldn't picture Shanks as either sort, and despite their as-of-yet brief acquaintance and all the words she'd ascribed to him so far (strange, handsome, charming),  _evil_ wouldn't settle with the same ease. Instead it seemed to struggle against the attempt; recoiling, as though her impression of him refused so much as to acknowledge the association.

Still, her eyes never strayed far from the sword at his waist, and the reminder was never far behind, that it wasn't there for decoration.

 _Dangerous,_ she decided, and found no resistance to that designation, for all his easy smiles.

"Makino-san?"

The voice dragged her out of her thoughts, and her gaze lifted from the spot on the counter she'd been scrubbing rather violently. She could feel her cheeks warming, the heat lapping at her throat and down the length of her collar, and averted her eyes from the ones regarding her curiously from across the polished bar-top.

Shanks' smile was sympathetic. "Still making you uneasy?"

Her brows furrowed, and she huffed. "Pardon my state of mind, Captain, but I wasn't raised to be naive." Although she could practically _hear_ Emiko's scoff at the notion that she wasn't. "I'll be uneasy as long as my tavern is full of criminals."

She realised belatedly that he might take offence, but all she got was a widening grin, as though he'd expected something of the sort. "Ah, my dear, you wield that word like a weapon, and you wield it well, but we prefer to go by 'pirates'. There's a distinction, you see — any man can be a criminal, but not all criminals can be pirates." At her raised brow, he laughed. "Oh, come on! Don't tell me you still think we're going to rob you?"

She studiously avoided his eyes, and kept herself from blurting that it was exactly what she'd been thinking.

His chuckle was a soft sound of understanding, not a twinge of insult to be found. "I guess that one's on me. So the question is  _—_ what can I do to remedy that?"

Makino hoped her frown looked convincingly suspicious, and not outwardly worried as she feared it did. And she tried her best to shove down the spark of excitement prompted by the offering, presented as she was with the possibility of an answer to the question sitting poised at the back of her tongue.

When she spoke, she tried to keep her voice even. She couldn't hope to feign complete indifference, but she tried her best not to let slip just how badly she wanted to know. "You can start by telling me what you're doing here," she said. "Fuschia isn't exactly known for its riches."

"So it isn't," he agreed. "And we weren't going to stop by initially, but like I said, it's been a long voyage. We needed a break." He shrugged, and cast a glance about the tavern. "Why not here? It's as good a place as anywhere for a rest, and the booze isn't bad."

She regarded him closely for a moment, the ease in his shoulders and his carefree attitude. "How long are you staying?"

He laughed at that — a rich sound that made an involuntary shiver run like a caress up her spine. There was a humorous glint in his eyes when he lifted them back to hers. "Eager to be rid of us, hmm?"

Makino felt her resolve crack ever so slightly at the sight of the smile on his face — it was difficult keeping your guard up under the tender onslaught of that kind of potent charm. And quite despite herself, she felt the tense grip on her shoulders gradually loosening.

Her sigh held a laugh, softer than his own. "I apologise, Captain. It's my first night running the bar on my own, and I'm a little on edge."

Shanks frowned, the expression startlingly genuine. "And here we waltzed in, making your day worse, huh?" He winced. "I have to admit, I've had better timing. Although not necessarily better manners." The grin that chased the last remark was a sheepish flash of teeth.

But then, "Anything I can do to make amends?" he asked, and the sincerity in his voice surprised her, although Makino suspected she should have learned by now not to have expectations around these people. Him, more than anyone else.

She allowed her expression to soften, although the fact that it required no effort whatsoever was a little worrisome, but, "It's quite alright, Captain," she said. "If anything, it's good practice, although I doubt I'll ever have this many customers at once after tonight."

His grin held a small world of mischief now. "That right? Maybe we should stop by more often, to keep you on your toes," he teased, and despite what was clearly in her best interest, Makino found herself smiling back.

"And here I thought a pirate's life was all about adventuring on the high seas, not dallying in backwater ports."

His eyes gleamed. "Sometimes the greatest adventures are found in the most unlikely places."

"Oh really? You're welcome to tell me all about this great adventure when you find it, then," she said, surprising herself with the quick retort. She'd never had much of a knack for small-talk, or the lightly combative repartee that Shanks' entire countenance suggested a long-held mastery.

He seemed distinctly pleased at the prospect, and Makino thought she saw a spark of challenge kindle in his eyes. "You've given me a reason to come back now, you realise."

A soft scoff, loosed before she could stop herself. "Hardly, Captain," she said, a wistful smile clinging to the words. "I assure you there are greater adventures to be found elsewhere."

Shanks cocked his head musingly. "You sound like you could use one of those."

She was dragged rather unceremoniously out of her thoughts again, and yet another blush warmed her cheeks. And how many times was that in the past hour? She'd lost count. "Only the ones I find in my books."

"You read, then?"

She shrugged. "It's the only thing that keeps me sane. You'll find that we have an impressive number of windmills, but not much else. Well — that, and melons. I'm not sure which is less exciting."

"I'm tempted to say the melons, but I can't really claim to be an expert on either, so who am I to judge?" His grin flashed, quick and playful. "But I guess it's fair to say this place doesn't see a whole lot of excitement. Other than the annual melon crop, of course."

She smiled. "Of course."

He regarded her closely for a moment, a curious look on his face, and Makino frowned. "What?"

He shrugged. "Nothing. I was just thinking about something." But at her suspicious look, he laughed. "Oh come now, Makino-san. Smiling becomes you so much more than scowling — although I'll admit it's a very lovely scowl."

 _Don't blush. Don't. Blush. Oh, gods._ "You're a charmer, I see," she managed with surprising ease, although she imagined the colour in her cheeks looked rather spectacular. On par with his hair, maybe.

His grin practically eating up his face, "Guilty as charged," Shanks chirped. "And I've been charged with a lot of things, although I have to say my charming personality is one of my better traits. Right, Benny?"

Ben Beckman —  _Benny_ , as Shanks insisted on calling him after drink number two — slid his captain a sidelong glance, and Makino didn't bother holding back her smile now. She didn't know if it was his silent nature or the calm air he had about him, but she'd found herself having taken an odd liking to the level-headed man — one of the few in Shanks' crew, if the general noise level was any indication.

Of course, there was also the painfully dry wit.

"Seen in light of your general idiocy, Captain, anything would qualify as one of your better traits," he shot back, entirely deadpan, and Makino couldn't stop the giggle from escaping. Mortified, she clapped a hand over her mouth, coughing to mask the smile on her face and turning her attention — or at least enough of it to still keep one eye on the two of them — on wiping down the counter-top.

For his part, Shanks looked mildly scandalised — and a bit petulant. "Ben, you traitor! What have I told you about making me look bad in front of beautiful women?"

"Don't do it while you're within earshot?"

Makino coughed loudly, shoulders shaking slightly despite her better efforts and her blush too bright to hide from anyone, but then what was she supposed to do when he kept throwing that word around?

Shanks grumbled, turning his attention away from his first mate, and if he noticed the colour in her cheeks that refused to relent he was kind enough not to point it out. "Don't listen to him, Makino-san. He's drunk out of his wits. You know how it is — loose tongue, loose thoughts. He obviously has no idea what he's talking about."

Her smile was a demure stretch of the lips. "Obviously."

He attempted a glare, although it lacked force, and the smile on his face betrayed him. "Taking his side, hmm? They always go for the quiet ones, don't they?" he mused.

"Only after meeting you, Captain," Ben offered, not missing a beat, and this time Makino couldn't stop the laughter from bubbling forth — a clear if slightly unflattering trill, not nearly loud enough to rise above the general din, but enough to catch the attention of the men seated at the bar.

"Ah— she does laugh!" Shanks declared, delighted. And there was that terribly earnest joy in his voice that seemed to require no effort, and paired with the look he was giving her, Makino had to fight so as not to drop her gaze.

"I'm terribly sorry, Captain," she said, although there was no real apology in the words, and if anything, the grin on her face gave her away. "I don't know what came over me."

"Sure you didn't." But the smile on his face didn't look like it would have budged with an insult, and didn't seem to be asking for an apology. "But think nothing of it, my dear. Ben's a real comedian sometimes. It's terrible, really. His sense of humour, that is. We can't take him anywhere." He shot the man a sidelong look of pure, undiluted cheek, tinged with only the barest hint of fond annoyance.

Ben didn't reply, only tucked his smile against the rim of his glass as he brought it to his lips.

Makino stifled a sudden yawn, shaking her head as though to clear it of the fatigue that tempted with ever-insistent fingers. She'd lost track of time hours ago, and for all she knew the sun could be making preparations for its morning climb across the sky. She was more than ready to crawl into bed — she could have fallen asleep at the counter, if given the opportunity — but didn't dare tell a room full of pirates she was closing the tavern for the night. Or was it morning?

Another yawn sat glued to the roof of her mouth, and she covered it discreetly with her hand. She tried to focus her attention on mentally checking the tavern's inventory, and was counting the empty barrels the pirates had gone through and wondering how many were left when Shanks suddenly spoke up, luring her attention away from lists and numbers.

"Getting a bit late, Ben?" he asked, sliding his first mate a look that she couldn't read. But Ben didn't seem to have a problem deciphering it, and without a word, turned his head towards the back of the tavern, and the two men seated at a table by the window — the first large and round-bellied and holding a piece of meat Makino had no idea how he'd gotten his hands on, and the other a thin, wiry man with a shock of curly blonde hair and a sharp look in his eyes.

Whatever they found in Ben's expression, they nodded their agreement, and Makino frowned at the silent exchange. What were they up to?

Suddenly, Shanks rose to his feet, placing his hands on the counter as he addressed the room, "Alright, guys, that's enough fun for tonight — we've got a ship that needs repairing and a larder to fill. Time for bed!"

A rousing chorus of "Boss!" answered his command without hesitation, and then they were all pushing to their feet, still laughing and talking among themselves as they moved out of the tavern and into the village waiting beyond the doors, a seemingly practised demonstration of organised chaos.

Makino stared at the spectacle with mounting disbelief, mouth hanging open as the echoed murmurs and shouts of "Goodnight, Makino-san!" and "See you again, Miss Makino!" drifted back, to linger along with the laughter in their wake. She offered a weak wave in return, mind scrambling to make sense of the sudden change, until they were all gone, and she realised with a start that she was alone with their captain.

When she looked at him, Shanks was smiling. "Well, I must thank you for an entertaining evening, Makino-san. It's been a pleasure."

He reached for her hand then, before she'd had time to catch up, and she could do nothing but stare in silent wonder as he brought it smoothly to his lips, suddenly aware of little else but the scruff on his jaw grazing her skin as he sketched a grinning kiss to her knuckles. He didn't drop his eyes from hers, and they shone with mischief and something she didn't have a name for, before he finally released her hand and turned to go, leaving her standing where she was, completely stupefied and with her hand still held out before her.

Pausing by the doors, he turned his head to give her a last, searching glance. "You know, I'll wager you won't find many barmaids who can handle an entire crew of pirates on her first night of running a tavern — and my crew, at that," he declared, his grin a quick thing of sudden warmth, before he reached to push the doors open. "Take care, my girl," he slipped the easy endearment over his shoulder, and she caught the edge of a mysterious smile as he turned his head. "Who knows? Maybe our paths will cross again someday."

Then he was gone, the bat-wing doors swinging softly in his wake.

Makino didn't move from her spot by the counter for a good minute, staring at the empty doorway and the gently swinging doors, the skin of her left hand still tingling from the kiss, and echoed by a soft flutter in her stomach that made her breath sit, curiously light in her chest.

It was only when she managed to tear her eyes away that she caught sight of the pile of gold coins on the bar before her, their cheerful lustre emphasised by the light thrown by the kerosene lamp over her head.

Her eyes widened at the sight, and she contemplated for a split second the thought of running after him. It was far too large a sum to accept as payment, even with the amount of alcohol they'd consumed and the grief they'd given her. The amount in front of her equalled several months' worth of business, at the very _least._

She was halfway across the room before she stopped herself, a sigh pulling free into the quiet, and settling as her shoulders sank back down from their startled clench. She was tired, and it _was_ late — or early, depending on how you looked at it.

So he thought he was clever, did he? Distracting her with that kiss. But the memory coaxed a blush to her cheeks, and she scolded herself for succumbing so easily to his charm as she turned from the door, and the lingering weight of his presence that clung like a caress to her skin, along with the imprint of his smile on her knuckles.

She'd go down to the docks and settle it with the man himself in the morning, she decided. It was far too late to go running across the village after strange pirate captains, anyway. And she still had the bar to clean.

Besides, she couldn't leave Luffy alone, should the boy wake up and find the tavern empty and Makino gone. And so she gathered up the coins, cleaned the dishes and the common room, and made her way to bed, checking in on Luffy before at last retiring to the quiet sanctuary of her own bedroom.

And for the first time since her Mistress' passing, Makino was asleep before her head hit the pillow.

 

—

 

The sun had just climbed above the treetops as she made her way towards the village docks the following morning, a pale sky touched with gold and the morning chill draped with silver drops on the grass.

She had a thick shawl wrapped around her shoulders, one of Emiko's old throwaways, and the coin-purse weighed heavy in her hands, its contents clinking softly with each step. Few people were out this early, although the tender curl of smoke rising from the chimneys told her the village was slowly shaking off its slumber. But the only other person besides herself that Makino could see was a local fisherman — or, local in the sense that he was from Dawn Island, anyway. But he was a regular at Party's whenever he docked his boat in Fuschia.

He was fixing the rigging on his sloop when she approached, and lifted his eyes to greet her, a smile stretching across his face. "Up early this morning, Makino-san?"

She smiled down at him from her perch on the rickety docks. "It's never too early when you've got a bar to prepare, Amaji-san," she said, eyes searching the few ships that sat, bobbing on the water's surface. She frowned — she recognised almost all of them, and the one she didn't know had neither a figurehead nor a jolly roger, and nothing about it suggested it being anything but a simple merchant ship.

"Looking for something?"

She dragged her eyes away from the boats, frown still in place. "The pirates that came in yesterday—"

"Raised anchor and left at first light," he answered before she could even finish asking. He shook his head. "Good riddance, I say. Pirates are nothing but trouble. I was surprised they didn't steal anything while they were here, though. They didn't cause you trouble last night, did they? I heard they came to the— Makino-san?"

Makino blinked, coming back to herself — he'd lost her at 'left at first light'. She coaxed her expression into something she hoped resembled a breezy smile. "Oh— no, they were surprisingly friendly. For pirates." She felt her grip tighten around the pouch in her hands. _You weren't going to let me give it back, were you, Captain?_

The fisherman huffed, shrugging his shoulders. "Ah, well. That's all good, I guess, though I do hope they won't be coming back. Friendly or not, pirates are pirates. If you ask me, they—"

His voice was lost to Makino as she turned her gaze to the horizon, glazed with the softer rose of a red dawn bleeding into morning. There was no sign of a ship anywhere on the ocean. If they'd left at first light they would have reached the next island by now.

And as she stood there, gaze fixed on the vast waters sweeping out from the safe shelter of her port, as she'd so often observed her old Mistress doing whenever she thought no one was looking, Makino marvelled at the empty feeling in her chest — a sudden, acute sense of loss. Nothing like the near-suffocating weight of bereavement she'd felt at her old guardian's death, but it was loss nonetheless, recognisable by the hollow vacuum that ate like hunger on her insides.

Although— there was something about this particular feeling that she couldn't quite put her finger on; an almost jittery sense of premonition, kin to anticipation.

It wasn't until she was pushing her way through the doors of her bar, the heavy pouch swinging from her hand and a hum sitting at the back of her throat, that she realised just what it was, in all its staggering simplicity—

_Maybe our paths will cross again someday._

—hope.

 


	4. heart wild like running horses

The sun idled, a lone sentinel in a clear blue sky, although it yielded little warmth this late in the year, and Makino tugged her scarf tighter around her neck, adjusting the warm coat slung about her shoulders as she made her way up the hillside. Winter was approaching, and without much mercy, frost-diamonds crunching under her boots as she made her way to the old oak at the top of the hill. In mitten-clad hands weighed a heavy, leather-bound novel, the stout and familiar frame hugged to her chest as she trudged towards her private sanctuary.

By the time she reached the top her cheeks were flushed, breath fogging white from the cold and sitting with a slight rasp in her chest, and the air dragged through her nose wedged like a knife between her ribs. But small discomforts were quickly forgotten as she stole a glance at the village sprawled at the bottom of the hill, quiet under the cold morning sun. If the early hour didn't already tempt most people to stay in their homes, the cold saw to the rest, which left Makino ample opportunity to steal some peace for herself.

The sigh that shook loose as she settled down beneath the tree was a thing of almost forgotten delight, the sturdy trunk pressing against her back a familiar welcome as she rested her weight against it, allowing her shoulders to relax for what felt like the first time in weeks.

And maybe it was. Over a month since her life had reached an abrupt bend in the road, and she'd been thrown headfirst into an existence of responsibilities and work. And with the pirates' unexpected arrival piled on top of everything, after which it had taken a good week for the village to settle down (although some still kept a wary eye on the horizon these days, Makino knew), there'd been few moments to claim for herself, and little rest aside from the one she got at night.

Which was why she'd started rising earlier to get her work done, giving herself a few hours of freedom to do as she pleased before the ever-busy tumult of responsibilities sought to drag her back. It was a good routine, giving her time to both do her job and lose herself in the worlds she'd been forced to neglect in favour of her own; the latter a natural part of of growing up, maybe, but that didn't mean she'd give in without a fight.

A soft hum rising from her throat, she lifted the book into her lap, tugging off her mittens and running gentle hands across the leather-bound cover. An old thing, well-worn from age and use despite her careful handling. It was the one that had first gotten her interested in reading, a well-meant birthday present from a woman who'd later lamented the decision, and that she hadn't given her something else instead  _—_ something frivolous and silly, and that wouldn't have taken up Makino's every waking hour.

_You're reading that old thing again?_

Emiko's look had been one of fond exasperation, leaning her weight on the broom in her hands.  _How many times does that make it? Five?_

 _Four, actually,_ Makino had said, grin shy but enthusiasm refusing to be tempered.

_You sure it wasn't a magic book I gave you? Where the story changes with every reading?_

_No, Mistress. It's the same story. I just never tire of it._

She'd huffed, in that way she had of doing; the one that couldn't seem to decide if it was in agreement or the opposite.  _Well, I sure hope you'll feel the same about the life you're living outside of that book. If you put it down long enough to actually live it, that is._

Then __—_ Come on, put that damn thing away. You know how it ends, anyway. I'll make us some tea._

Smile softening with the memory, she traced a fingertip along the faded gold lettering on the front. It was her most treasured possession, and however ironic  _—_ as her dislike of fiction and fancy was a well-known fact  _—_ it was the one thing among her mortal belongings that reminded Makino the most of her late guardian. The protagonist shared many of the old woman's traits  _—_ a fierce temper and an unyielding will, and an assortment of less-than-flattering quirks that made her smile widen now, remembering.

 _Comparing me to a fool in a book, are you?_ Makino could practically hear the snort that would have followed the demand.  _Well, there's one important difference _—_ I_ _'m_ real. _Flesh and blood and what have you._ _Now get your nose out of that thing and go do your chores._

Flipping open the front cover, she allowed her gaze to rest on the first page, and the words staring up at her, the ink slightly faded but still legible. Leafing through the first few chapters, she settled on her favourite part  _—_ the one where the hard-headed, hard-hearted protagonist met the man who would turn her life on its head...

 _...she spun around in a slow circle, her eyes taking in the sight of the approaching men quickly closing in on her. Drunk off tavern-wine, some teetered slightly in their steps, but the light in their eyes was the same. Feral, hungry expressions twisted once-handsome features beyond recognition,_ _and she felt a twinge of fear mingle with the furious anger bubbling in her chest._

' _Why do you run, sweet Nina? All I wanted was a dance,' one of them spoke up, and recognition teased at her memory, although it yielded little._

_Her hands tightened in her skirts, the supple weight of silk catching against her fingers. 'Any woman with a shred of sense would run at the sight of a face like yours,' she countered, stepping back ever so slightly, and painfully aware of the wall at her back._

_The man grinned, a thing of cold mirth. '_ _What a barbed tongue you've got. You said something like that back there as well, didn't you? Embarrassed me in front of my men, and I can't say I liked that.' He took a step forward, still grinning, but it had a brittle edge to it now._

' _'Frigid Nina' _—__ _that's what they call you. Refuses the advances of all men _—_ and women. Intriguing, I thought. Because you see,' he said, the grin slipping off his face, a sheet of ice cracking under pressure, freezing the blood in her veins - _ ' _No woman refuses_ _me_ _.'_

_The men that had been slowly advancing on her made their move, reaching for her as they came close, a circle of wolves with their teeth bared, but she was damned if she was a helpless lamb._

_She hissed, rearing back from reaching fingers, kicking her feet as she backed further into the wall. The man _—_ she didn't even know his name!  _—_ remained where he stood, hands behind his back as he observed the spectacle before him._

_She felt hands on her arms, their grip painfully tight, and clenched her teeth as she attempted to pry them off. There was no use screaming _—_ the whole village was at the tavern, and if anyone heard, odds were they would be too drunk to do anything about it._

_Her hands were forced behind her back, and she was pushed to her knees, and only now did the man start walking towards her, a new smile curling along his mouth. Kneeling in front of her, he tugged her chin up._

' _Still sure you don't want that dance?' he asked, his amusement as cold as the offering, and the anger in her reached its boiling point. Pulling back, she spat in his face, a surge of pleasure rising in her chest as he drew back with an oath. Wiping his face with the sleeve of his shirt, he reached back as if to strike her._

 _Abruptly, the weight holding her down disappeared, and she fell forward, arms shooting out to catch herself. The sound of a scuffle reached her ears, and she pushed herself up, only to see the men on the ground beside her, out cold. Scrambling to turn around, she found the same fate to have befallen her initial pursuer, and by his prone_ _form loomed the tall shape of a man_ _re-fastening the sheath of his sword at his waist, velvet coat-tails barely having been ruffled from the altercation._

 _He turned towards her, dark eyes seeking her own._ ' _Are you hurt?'_

 _She could only manage a nod, gathering her skirts as she rose to her feet. Her rescuer_ _returned the gesture, but offered nothing else as he turned on his heel to walk away, leaving her amidst her fallen pursuers, stupefied._

_She blinked, irritation flashing as she lifted her chin to call after him -_

"You know, it's interesting how the only man who doesn't make a conscious effort of wooing her is the one who wins her heart in the end."

The entirely cool observation dragged her bodily out of the moonlit and velvet-draped world of the book and back to the cold Fuschia morning, and Makino slammed her head against the trunk of the tree as she sat upright from her slouch, shouting at the jolt of pain shooting through the back of her skull.

Gaze blurring with tears, her eyes swivelling upwards, only to find a scarred and grinning face looking down at her, and Shanks, leaning casually against the tree above her where he appeared to have been reading over her shoulder.

Her mouth worked, but no words came to mind when she looked for them, and so she clamped it shut to avoid looking like a gaping fish. But at last she managed to find her voice, only to end up blurting the first thing that presented itself to her grasping fingers _—_

"You've read this book?"

It was far from the question she probably should have asked, which was something along the lines of 'what the hell are you _doing_ here?', but it was all she'd been able to dredge up in her state of startled disorientation.

But Shanks only shrugged, seeming to find nothing amiss with the question. Or his presence. "Years ago. It's from West Blue. The author was from my hometown, actually." A smile that hinted at a private joke touched the corner of his mouth. "Not known for its windmills _or_ melons, but we did produce a surprising number of published writers. And gangsters. Those aren't interchangeable terms, mind you. Well  _—_ in most cases, at least."

Her heart was still racing after his sudden appearance, and she forced it to slow down, or at least make a little less _noise_ , as she was sure they could hear her all the way down in the village. He certainly could __—__ she could tell from the way he was looking at her, eyes alight with amusement. In the sunlight they looked different, grey flecked with sprigs of green, but they were no less warm, even in the cold light.

She sniffed then, cheeks colouring with embarrassment at her state of mind and, surprisingly, her state of dress. And she was suddenly all too aware of the ratty old coat, another throwaway from her late mother, and the ugly, patchwork disaster of a scarf that she'd knitted herself. Or attempted to, anyway.

"Do you make a habit of barging into the lives of unsuspecting girls, Captain?" she asked, a note of irritation slipping into her voice, prompted by the fact that she'd so very clearly been caught off guard, as Shanks made to take a seat beside her at the base of the tree, uninvited but seeming to pay no mind to the fact. "And inviting yourself into their company without asking?"

Her exasperation passing him by like a breeze, the queries only made his grin stretch, and it was such a disarming smile, Makino felt her annoyance deflate almost as quickly as it had swelled within her only moments before.

"I was going to call out to announce myself, but you looked pretty engrossed in that thing," he said. Then, his eyes twinkling, "Do you know that you mumble the words under your breath when you read? It's really endearing _—_ what?" he laughed, no doubt at the look on her face.

Makino blinked, incredulous, and gave a great sweep of her hand to his slouching form beside hers. "I _—_ you _—_ what are you even _doing_ here?"

Cocking his head, he seemed cheerfully unperturbed by her reaction. "At this very moment? Having a conversation with a pretty girl. In general? Paying a visit...to said pretty girl." He grinned, no doubt at her reaction to the words, sitting brighter than the cold in her cheeks. "Told you we'd stop by sometime, didn't I? Or maybe I didn't. Ah, well. We're here now, so it doesn't really matter. One of the guys went to warn you about the influx of customers tonight, but he came back telling us you weren't there. I had an old lady in town tell me where you were, although I had to be extra charming in order to get it out of her. Not a particularly friendly village, is it? Everyone is so suspicious."

He hadn't even paused for breath, and despite herself, her exasperation was a suddenly fond thing. "What did you expect, Captain? I told you it's not every day that pirates stop by. Things have barely settled after your last visit."

"Really? Doesn't take much to excite these people." His grin held far too much cheek, Makino thought. "Then again, it's a bit late in the season for melons. Not much else to do, I guess."

She closed her eyes. "You're impossible."

"Impossib _ly_ charming? Why, Makino-san, I'm flattered. Really, I am. Ben won't tell me, you see, so I need my daily dose of outside validation from elsewhere. A good thing I found you, he's so stingy with his compliments. It's a small wonder I put up with him."

"You don't seem to be in need of outside validation," she told him. "You validate yourself just fine on your own."

His grin was entirely too pleased. "I've had years of practice. But don't let my roguish good looks fool you. I'm susceptible to flattery, same as any man."

"You seem susceptible to a lot of things, if you ask me," she murmured.

"I am a man of many vices, yes."

"Oh is that what you're calling it?"

The grin that lit up his face had her turning her eyes to the sky. And  _—_ what was she _doing?_   He was treating her like an old friend, and maybe that was his way  _—_ honestly, going by what she'd gathered of his personality so far she wouldn't be surprised if she wasn't the first he'd charmed into an involuntary friendship before the other party had even had a chance to realise what was happening _—_ but she'd never been good at this kind of thing. And yet here she was, responding to his teasing like it was the easiest thing in the world.

"What?" Shanks asked, laughter in his voice, when she'd kept her gaze fixed on the sky for a beat too long.

Makino shot him what she hoped was a telling look, gesturing between them. "You _—_ I don't know you," she blurted, before flushing in some perverse progeny of surprise and mortified embarrassment as she realised exactly what words had seen fit to stumble out of her mouth, and what they implied, namely a desire to change it.

"Oh?" He grinned, and as though having read her thoughts on her face, which was all too likely. "That's an easy fix, if it would make you more comfortable," he said, and Makino turned her eyes away, seeking anything but his face to rest them on.

"Makino-san," she heard him say then, nudging her gently to make her look at him. When she did, it was to find a sheepish expression on his face, but the apology in his eyes was genuine. "I'm sorry. I tend to get a little ahead of myself. It's that whole 'speaking before thinking' thing. My mother always said I lacked good manners, and I think she might have had a point." Then, brows furrowing in bemusement, "Or...at least I think it was my mother who said that," he mused, as though as an aside. "It might have been Ben, actually."

She shook her head, but found her smile hard to stifle. "It's quite alright, Captain."

"Shanks."

She blinked. "What?"

"If you want to get to know me, Makino-san, you could start by addressing me as something other than my title. Of course, if you're rather one for epithets I have a whole list for you to choose from, but if not, my name will suffice."

She stared at him for a moment, taking in the charming grin, so full of boyish cheek, before allowing one of her own to lift the corner of her mouth. "Captain."

"Shanks."

_"Captain."_

"...Captain Shanks?"

She closed her eyes, and heard him let slip a snort  _—_ and she could practically hear the grin, too, when he sighed, "Stubborn girl. Alright, have it your way, although I wager I'll have you calling me _Shanks_ by the end of the week."

 _That_ caught her attention. "Wait _—_   _week?"_

He shrugged. "Damaged our ship on our way out of North Blue, so we're squatting here for a few days." His smile was suddenly wry. "Or would that be too much for these people? I promise we'll play nice."

The droll remark came quicker than she'd expected it would. "I think we'll manage, Captain. A little excitement never hurt anyone, and it's been a few weeks since the melon harvest." Then, mouth pursing with a smile at the sight of his own, "Just keep an eye out for the old seamstress in town."

"She doesn't like pirates?"

"Oh no, she'd love pirates. She's one of our spinsters _—_ the figurative kind, not the literal." Then under her breath, "Although she's a little too literal sometimes."

"What was that?"

She shook her head. "Nothing. I _—_ wait, what was I saying?"

He grinned. "Something about spinsters. Figuratively speaking."

She laughed. "Oh, right. We have those, in something of an abundance. It's an unfortunately common side-effect of having only melon farmers and fishermen to contend with. Doesn't leave much room for the romance of the age." Feeling suddenly embarrassed at how quickly the words had rushed out of her, she cleared her throat. "This one is, ah  _—_ well, let's just say she's a bit...unpredictable, when there are new men about."

'New' was a nice way of putting it, and the woman herself had a far less polite term for it, invoking meat and things fresh for the picking, but Makino pointedly refused to utter it to Shanks, already anticipating what his reaction would be. The world 'wolfish' came to mind.

She caught his laughter as it fell now, a richly coloured chuckle, and the sound of it luring a smile to her face without effort. At its heels, a comfortable silence pooled between them, as Makino absentmindedly fiddled with the upturned page of her book.

"So does it really work like that?"

She glanced up, finding that keen gazed fixed on the page under her fingers. "What?"

He nodded to the page, but didn't reach out to touch it, and she felt her fingers curl towards her palm, as though having expected the warmth of his hand. But before she could linger long on the question of why that was, "Is it the aloof, uninterested ones that catch your attention?" he asked.

Bemused at the turn of the conversation, she knew her smile had to reflect some of her feelings. "I can't speak for all women, but...I don't know, I guess there's something desirable about the things you can't have," she said with a shrug. Then, brows lifting a bit, "You should know. Isn't that part of the pirate gig?"

"Touché," he mused. "Although in my defence, I usually refrain from robbing people."

"Usually, hmm?"

"Yeah, it's just too much effort. Mine's a comfortable way of pirating."

"A comfortable way of pirating?" she asked, and didn't care that she sounded dubious. "I don't know if I should ask."

An almost childlike glee seeping into his entire countenance, "You should," Shanks said. "You won't regret it."

"I'm not so sure I believe you."

"You know, I don't think I want to know what your imagination is making of that," he told her with a shake of his head. "I was referring to _camping,_ by the way. Terribly ominous stuff. Makes your skin crawl just thinking about it."

Makino blinked, too surprised to comment on the insufferable cheek. "Camping?"

He shrugged. "Find me a remote little island, a decent parasol and enough booze to sustain a small crew  _—_ meaning it should be enough for me _—_ and you've got my idea of comfortable."

"So the sword is just for show? Or do you use it to prop the parasol up?"

He seemed delighted at the quick response, and entirely willing to demonstrate it. "Cute. But the sword is for swordplay, believe it or not. Everyone needs a hobby." For emphasis, he gave a light tap to the hilt.

Her eyes followed the movement of his hand, lingering on the wide, curved handle arching under his fingers. It looked like any other blade, an almost understated elegance to the design. Given the man who carried it, it seemed a good fit  _—_ and as such, Makino was loath to dismiss its outward simplicity as being nothing more than that.

She arched a brow. "And that's not too much effort?"

"Ah, but that's _fun,_ see?" He grinned, seeming pleased at her show of interest. "I've got a sparring partner, too. He stops by once in a while for a match. He's not much in the way of conversation, but he can drink most of us under the table. A good trait, that. Then again, I've built a lot of solid friendships on less."

"Somehow, I'm not surprised to hear that," Makino said. And curiosity getting the better of her, she hardly let the words sit on her tongue before speaking them, "Do you have a lot of friends on the high seas, then?"

She'd been worried he might find her questions prying, but Shanks seemed happy to share, although she noticed that he kept his answers deliberately vague, and wondered for whose sake. "Friends, rivals." He flashed her a grin. "Now _those_ are interchangeable terms, at least where it counts." His eyes did a musing sweep across the stretch of sea in the distance. "Lots of weirdos on the seas nowadays though, looking for One Piece."

The smile she shot him didn't even pretend to be demure. "If you're the one throwing that word around, I can only imagine."

"Wait _—_ was that an _insult_?" At her carefully innocent look, his grin widened. "It was, wasn't it?" But sounded distinctly pleased at the fact, and, "Oh, my girl," he laughed. "You're not nearly as shy as you had us all thinking. You'd give Ben a run for his money." A pause, and then, "I'd love to see that."

The casual endearment had something expanding behind her ribcage, a caress of soft-winged flutters that made her next words sound slightly breathless, "I don't think anyone can top Ben-san. But I have to say, you do have them coming, Captain."

"Shanks."

" _Captain._ "

He mused, "I bet the little lady in town would call me Shanks."

"Hmm, yes. She'd also never let you out of her sight once she'd laid eyes on you."

His grin was impish, and entirely knowing. "Oh no? And why would that be?"

She realised her mistake, and the soft wings tucked together, a dive of a hundred singing birds into into the pit of her stomach. She was almost sure he'd heard them  _—_ or if not, the furious blush left in their wake was telling enough. "You, ah _—_ you're very _—_ "

"Very?"

" _—_ different."

A brow arched, tugging at the scars, and Makino couldn't tell if his smile was amused or just plain incredulous. "Different, huh? Careful, or you'll flatter my ego beyond what Ben can manage."

Her own smile was a far shyer thing. "No flattery intended, Captain."

"You realise that makes it an insult, right?"

She pressed her lips together to stifle her smile. It didn't work. "I'm sure Suzume-san will give you plenty of compliments."

"Yes, well, we've established that I'm _different_ , so I'm feeling like I could use one of those right about now."

"Different from most Fuschia men," Makino clarified.

"Meaning?"

"Meaning you're not a melon farmer."

"Now that _does_ sound like a compliment," Shanks mused. Then with a grin, "So this old girl. Likes 'em wild, does she?"

It was Makino's turn to shake her head. "Something like that." Then, without really knowing why she was sharing so many things, "There's a rumour that she used to be a pirate, but no one has any proof. But I guess it's as good a theory as any. She's rather...fierce."

He laughed, the sound keenly pleased. "Sounds like my kind of woman."

She didn't know why, but her stomach did a small flip at that  _—_ and not the good kind, the diving birds. This was something else, and she was suddenly brought back to the book in her lap, and the protagonist she'd spent so many years of her childhood wishing she could emulate.

She stole a glance at the man beside her, gaze finding the scars before anything else, but also the eyes sitting beneath, watching her curiously now, and with a look she couldn't quite place. And of course it wasn't a struggle, imagining the kind of woman a man like that would want. _Fierce_ seemed suddenly all too fitting a word.

She didn't know why it mattered. Only that it did.

"Mind your words, Captain," she said then, the teasing remark a murmur that didn't quite manage the ease she'd been trying for. "Or she'll hear you and come running."

His eyes gleamed. "I'll heed that warning, but only because the present company has me plenty enthralled."

It took a moment for the words to register, and then it was a furious scramble to look for an expression that didn't convey every single one of her feelings.

Going by the growing smile on his face, though, Makino doubted she was successful.

But before she could offer up a remark  _—_ anything that didn't begin with _enthralled,_  because the word had cheerfully glued itself to the very front of her mind, which was suddenly refusing to acknowledge that there were any other words in her vocabulary  _—_ Makino's eyes dropped from his face, and for the first time since he'd taken a seat beside her, seemed to get a proper look at him.

Observing the change in her expression, Shanks blinked. "What's wrong?"

"What _—_ what are you _wearing_?"

His eyes swept downwards, following the line of her gaze, but his look remained uncomprehending. "What? This is what I always wear," he said, tugging at the fabric of his capris for emphasis.

"Are you aware what time of year it is?"

That expressive mouth lifted in a wry smile. "The frost gives me a pretty good guess, but now I'm curious to see what you'll say."

Makino puffed her cheeks. "You mock."

"And you don't approve of my choice of apparel, evidently."

She slapped his bare leg, too busy forgetting herself to take notice of the gesture; the fact that she was touching him, and freely. "Sandals! Who wears sandals in winter? And _capris_?"

"Sandals are comfortable! Much more comfortable that stubby boots, I'll have you know. And I _would_ know. I've visited my share of winter islands in my time. I'm immune to the cold."

"Your toes are turning blue."

"What? No they're not."

She pointed, and he looked down, wordless response greeting a wordless gesture. Then  _—_ "It looks worse than it feels."

"Wiggle your toes."

He met her gaze, open challenge in his eyes now, and for a moment Makino thought he might refuse. But then, still holding her gaze, which was how she could tell that she was right, by the wince that pulled at his expression, even before he said, "Yeah, okay, I take that back."

Makino rolled her eyes. "Immune," she muttered, rising smoothly to her feet. "Come on," she ordered, holding out her hand.

Shanks looked at it, before lifting his gaze to her, brows raised in surprise. When he made no move to take it, she huffed, and reached for his instead, finding it surprisingly warm, but she kept from remarking on that as she gave it a tug, more for emphasis than anything else  _—_ it wasn't like she could physically drag him to his feet.

"Where are we going?" he asked, but he yielded to her stubborn insistence, pushing himself up, although he didn't let go of her hand at once.

Makino gave him a nudge, towards the sloping path crawling down to the village. "To Party's to get you some socks, you senseless man."

 _"Socks?_ I can't wear socks in my sandals, Makino, I'll look ridiculous." To her surprise, he seemed genuinely put off by the suggestion. "It goes against my entire policy. Not to mention my honour as a pirate."

"I think you're confusing honour with pride," she shot back smoothly, and nudged him a bit more forcefully. He muttered something under his breath that sounded distinctly like _pride?,_ but didn't stop walking, even as she added, cheerfully, "And you won't look nearly as ridiculous as you will after they've amputated your feet from frostbite."

That made him stop, expression slack with disbelief. "Can they _do_ that?"

The sigh that escaped her was a laughing thing, but when she gave another tug at his arm, he followed. "Honestly, Captain, are you sure you're not Luffy's long lost father? Because you act just like him."

They'd nearly reached Party's, making an odd pair, what with her bundled up in full winter gear, in all its ragged, hand-me-down glory, and Shanks still in his sandals and shirtsleeves. Barring the cloak, although Makino doubted it offered much warmth.

She spied more than a few villagers not-so-covertly observing them as they walked past, some peeking through the curtains in their kitchen windows; a collective effort to achieve a truly impressive stereotype of port-town gossip.

Makino studiously ignored them all, already aware that an outrageous rumour of some sort was going to be all over the village by the time the sun dipped beyond the horizon, and knowing with an even greater certainty that she could do nothing to stop it.

She pushed open the doors to the tavern, leading him inside. "Sit."

Shanks did as he was told, offering no fuss, and she made for the stairs, tugging off her coat and scarf as she went. There was a room at the very end of the hallway that contained all sorts of old clothes; some were Garp's, having been left for mending years ago and long forgotten, and as she'd thought, she found a pair of large, woolly socks amongst the neatly folded shirts and pants of various, eye-sore inducing patterns.

Lifting them up, she hesitated, nose wrinkling already in anticipation, before tentatively bringing them close to her face. Breathing a sigh of relief when she caught nothing out of the ordinary, she turned to head back downstairs, only to stop in her tracks at the top of the staircase as the events of the past few minutes descended on her, and without mercy  _—_ along with an echo of a question she'd already asked herself once today, although this time it was abject mortification that followed, not confusion.

What the hell was she _doing?_

Glancing down at the socks in her hands, she resisted the urge to muffle a scream with them. Had she just treated the captain of a crew of pirates like a petulant _child?_ What was that man doing to her? She couldn't remember a time she'd been so free with herself around another human being, save maybe Garp, but even then she held some of herself back. But with Shanks-

She chewed on her cheek; an old, nervous habit. He'd already demonstrated a patience at odds with what she'd thought she knew about pirates  _—_ with what she'd thought she knew about _men,_  most of which Makino doubted liked to be coddled, or bossed around. But he'd let her get away with both without so much as a word of complaint, barring the one about his honour as a pirate, although even that had been a teasing thing, and his good humour had hardly seemed dampened by her demands.

Although _—_ what if he really had taken offence?

 _Fool girl_ , came the old words, rooted out of her memory without trouble, and she could imagine the old woman's frown.  _How quick you are to trust with that heart of yours. That will cost you when he asks for payment, as all men do._

"Everything alright up there? Did the socks get you, maybe?" There was amusement in his voice, bright and clear, and hiding nothing else; not even sarcasm.

Fingers curling around the socks, as though for courage, Makino began her reluctant descent of the staircase. But when the common room came into view he was still seated at the stool where she'd left him, a smile easing across his face at the sight of her, although catching the expression on hers, his frown was an instantaneous thing. "You okay?"

She palmed at the socks in her hands, feeling suddenly indecisive. Looking at him now, her worries seemed silly. And yet  _—_ "I apologise, Captain," she said, before she could think too much about it. "I don't know what came over me. My behaviour _—_ "

"Is nothing to apologise for," Shanks cut her off, the expression on his face suddenly serious, as though he was trying to piece together what had prompted such a change in attitude.

Then he smiled, and it was softer than the others he'd given her  _—_ softer, and yet keenly knowing, as though he'd realised exactly where her thoughts had taken her. "And if anyone's apologising it should be me. I forget myself sometimes. Pirates come a dime a dozen in my business, but here it's like we're heralding the end of the world."

Her smile was small, but she didn't doubt he saw the relief in it. "Something like that."

Shanks was silent, regarding her from his perch, before he said, "I can go, if you _—_ "

"No!"

Surprising herself as much as she probably surprised him, Makino realised a moment too late just how _visceral_ that reaction sounded, and so was too late to suppress her wince. "Ah _—_ what I mean is that you can  _—_ stay. If you want. To stay. Here." Stifling a shriek, she expelled some of her anxiety with a breath. "I seem to be having a problem remembering my manners around you, too," she murmured. She attempted a smile. "Feel free to tell Ben-san it's a mutual problem."

"Oh I would, but he'd probably just blame my terrible influence," Shanks said. And before she could protest, "But don't worry about it. Seriously. I think it's endearing."

Her smile came, too quick to catch and tuck away safely. And it was the second time he'd used that word to describe her, and the realisation sent her heart skipping a full beat. Makino tried her best to ignore it, focusing her attention instead on gathering her thoughts into a semblance of coherence.

"I found you some socks," she said then, almost shyly. They were closely knit, with thick stripes of white and a terrible, bawdy green that screamed _Garp_ from a mile away.

Shanks raised a brow at the offering, and there was a beat of silence wherein he seemed to contemplate whether or not he'd ever seen such a hideous colour, before he shrugged. "Eh. I've worn worse," he declared, accepting them as he kicked off his sandals.

Makino huffed a laugh. "I don't know why I'm surprised."

He shot her a look, before straightening in his chair, wiggling his toes in his new socks. She suffocated a snort  _—_ he did look a little ridiculous, although it was easier convincing herself if she kept her eyes firmly on the socks, and from drifting upwards, to the parts of him that she was quickly beginning to realise she found to be quite the opposite.

Turning back to the bar to find something to occupy her fretting hands, she asked, vastly more comfortable than she'd been a minute ago, despite her current line of thought, "Would you care for a drink, Captain?"

"Shanks. And yes, if you'd please. Something with a strong enough kick to make these stripes fashionable."

"Planning to drink me dry, are you?"

"Why, my dear, is that a challenge?"

She'd have to be deaf not to catch the underlying note sitting beneath that remark, even though her own had been entirely literal, and without any other motive. Suddenly flustered, she fumbled to steer the conversation back onto a safer course. "I don't think I'll take the risk. Here." She pushed a glass towards him. "On the house, courtesy of yourself and that obscene amount of gold you left on my counter when you left."

He actually looked scandalised. _"Obscene?_  I thought it was an appropriate amount, given the circumstances."

"I could have built a new bar with those coins."

He seemed entirely unperturbed by the suggestion. "And? That's a good thing, right? You can't have that many paying customers coming through here on a daily basis, and a few extra coins can only come in handy. Besides, it's not just out of my own pockets. It's from the rest of the guys, too." He gave her a look, brows lifting with far too much innocence, Makino thought. "Do you really want me to tell them you won't accept it? They'll be crushed."

"Something tells me they'll live through the disappointment."

"Ah, my dear," Shanks said. "You underestimate the hearts of my men." A curious glint entering his eyes, "You made an impression. Can't blame them for being a little smitten."

Ignoring her blush, Makino regarded him from across the counter, and there was a mild note of accusation in her tone when she said, "You're not going to let me give it back."

Shanks raised his glass in a toast. "Not a chance. And if I catch you trying to sneak them back in my pockets, I'll leave an even bigger amount when we leave this time. You'll have to think of a word that's worse than 'obscene'." He hummed, as though to himself. "Outrageous?" Then, a suddenly wicked grin flashing, "I have been known to be that."

It was a feat, attempting to ignore the way the word _leave_  imprinted itself on the quiet, and her thoughts. "I don't think I'll take the chance, your private coffers taken into consideration. Something tells me you're liable to go a little overboard, and I won't take more of your money than you rightly owe."

"Not that kind of girl, hmm?" Shanks asked, regarding her from behind the rim of his glass.

Makino forced down the blush she could feel climbing up her throat, and hoped her smile looked convincingly teasing, rather than let slip the thoughts behind it. "No. You're just not my kind of man."

He arched a brow at that, putting his glass down on the counter with deliberate care. "Those are fighting words," he said, and there was something else in his eyes now  _—_ an entirely different kind of warmth. "Could give a man ideas of proving you wrong."

She was relieved when the answer came to her in a heartbeat, stuttering as it was. "Ah, but you've read the book  _—_ ' _I will be proven neither wrong nor right',_ " she quoted with a smile, and the lingering note of a half-wistful sigh. Fictional or not, she'd always admired Nina for her resolve.

There was a clear challenge in his smile now, one that had her heart leaping behind her breastbone, and  _—_ was he leaning towards her? The thought sent her mind screeching to an abrupt halt, and she was sure she'd stopped breathing as she found herself subject to the full, intimate weight of that dark gaze, rooting her to the spot.

Shanks inclined his head, the action suddenly bright with intent, and her breath gave a soft hitch when his fingers uncurled from around the glass as he made to reach towards her _—_

"I hope we're not interrupting anything."

The wry baritone startled her so much she dropped the glass she was holding onto the counter, sending shards flying everywhere and her eyes towards the doorway, to the tall man standing there. Flanked by the rest of the crew and expression a flat slate of dry bemusement, Ben's gaze did a single sweep of the spectacle before him  _—_ the unrelenting blush in Makino's cheeks, the shower of broken glass, and finally, the casually discarded sandals and his captain's current choice of footwear.

Ben's brows lifted once at the sight of the socks, before he lifted his gaze back to the two of them. "You know what? I'm not even going to ask."

 


	5. spine bent; fragile, like a paperback

She was in trouble.

Her strategic retreat— _escape,_  if she was being entirely honest—saw her crouched in the back room, head in her hands and her knees hugged to her chest, as though to physically suffocate the mutinous heart pushing back against her ribcage.

It wasn't fair. The way he'd sauntered into her life, under no other pretence but the need of a drink and a rest, and yet here she was, weeks later, nursing the ugliest crush in living memory and trying her very best to sink through the floor, if only so she didn't have to deal with the thoughts that kept offering themselves up for her perusal, every time she shut her eyes and that _grin_ appeared.

Oh, she was in _trouble,_ for no other reason than the fact that she had no trouble imagining the impish stretch of his lips, and the intent that had kindled in his eyes when he'd reached across the bar towards her. And if Ben hadn't interrupted—

The heels of her hands pressed to her eyes, Makino stifled a soft shriek, the sound a keening lament muffled against her raised knees. She couldn't even make herself go there, for fear of what would follow. Speculations. Dangerous speculations. Dangerous ideas.

 _D_ _angerous_ _man,_ her mind supplied, cheerfully unhelpful and apparently in cahoots with her traitorous heart, which punctuated the alliance with a somersault.

She really shouldn't find the notion so intriguing, but then she was so terribly, laughably sheltered, and coupled with her particular breed of curiosity, they'd chased off her better judgement. And her good sense.

Not her shame, though, which still clung with a persistent blush to her cheeks whenever her mind turned to a certain pirate, who never seemed to be far from her thoughts.

Palms dropping from her face, warm where they'd been pressed against her skin, Makino dropped her head back against the wall. The muffled din of the common room at her back crept through the planks in slivers; a mostly muted drum of revelry letting slip the occasional burst of sound — a laugh or a shout, and the raised, off-key note of a particularly lewd sea shanty whose melody she recognised despite the cheerful butchering. But the wall offered up a shield, if only a momentary one, separating her from the crew who'd taken up residence in her tavern and her life.

And their captain, seated at her bar like he belonged there.

The sigh that slipped into the quiet storeroom held a half-hysteric laugh, lost under her breath as she let her shoulders drop from their tense perch beneath her ears, leaving her feeling strangely deflated.

She'd have to go back in soon, before they found something strange in her absence — or worse, one of them came looking. But she didn't know how much more she could take, trapped under the weight of that too-hot gaze, and in a hold that she couldn't seem to decide if she really wanted to escape. And it didn't really help that _Ben_ was there, wearing that long-suffering mien and altogether-too-knowing smile.

Rubbing her fingers against her brow, a vain attempt at wiping the image of his face away from her eyes, she spared a half-incredulous thought to how it had all come to this. Although, if she were being honest, it was probably her own fault. Her own heart's worst enemy, infatuated by the first handsome stranger who saw fit to show her even so much as a modicum of interest, Makino's trouble was of her own making. And—although it wasn't much of a surprise, really—an entirely one-sided affliction.

It certainly didn't seem to be affecting Shanks — 'it' being the abrupt shift in their otherwise platonic acquaintance, or whatever you called easy-banter-turned-the-infatuation-of-the-age, which was the crux of her suffering at present.

Then again, he _was_ a pirate. And a good few years older than her. This was probably all par for the course for him — a new port, and a new girl smitten out of her wits. It wasn't like he was oblivious to the effect he had on people.

Or on her, Makino thought, considering her fingers, plucking restlessly at her skirt. And going by his attitude alone, she wasn't the first who'd suffered the brunt of his undiluted charm, offered without reserve as it was. The corner of his mouth lifting, smile quietly marvelling, and the way his eyes would change, bright with shameless teasing one moment, and in the next the weight behind them had pushed all the breath from her lungs.

No, definitely not the first. And she didn't want to think about them — those other girls, the would-be barmaids and what have you, who had been and would be in Makino's shoes, smitten silly and succumbing to that crooked smile and those warm eyes with varying degrees of utter ridiculousness. Or maybe that last part was just her.

And it was ridiculous, she conceded. She'd had crushes before—most of them fictional, barring a rare exception, but then this _was_ Fuschia—but none of them could even compare to what she was going through now, a distraction so profound she had no mind for anything else. She had no appetite either, although that was hardly surprising, given the sinking chasm beneath her ribcage that seemed to expand every time the thought of him grazed her mind, pushing against her chest until it almost hurt to breathe.

Smoothing her skirt under her palm, she pushed a breath past her teeth, a half-laugh, too sharp for mirth, and mostly at her own expense, for falling so spectacularly — not to mention, spectacularly _fast._  A breakneck descent, spurred by nothing more than an attractive smile and a pair of broad shoulders, which always shook when he laughed. She'd never met anyone who laughed like him, as though with his whole being.

She didn't know when he'd worked his way so thoroughly under her skin, only that he had, and that it had happened without her notice. And now it sat, an itch begging to be scratched. And the worst thing about her infatuation by far wasn't that there was one, but that she was _considering_ it — the scratching, begging twitching fingers every time he turned that smile her way, which was far too often, in Makino's opinion.

But all she knew about romance was from her books, which was laughably little, at least insofar as actual experience was concerned. There'd been a shy kiss or two in her youth, but all of them clumsy, and none of them yielding anything more. Shanks didn't answer to either of those descriptions, which really shouldn't be as appealing as it was, but despite her better sense she couldn't stop thinking about it — what it would be like, being with someone like him.

Of course, on the back of that thought clung another, that _being with_ implied more than a teasing kiss brushed against her knuckles. She'd never dared ask Emiko about matters of the heart, let alone the body, and even with her extensive collection of well-thumbed and dog-eared paperbacks providing extra support for her bedsprings, Makino wasn't naive enough to think it would be the same in real life, and with a real man. Less flowing curtains, probably. And no rippling muscles painted by moonlight.

But the pleasure bit...there had to be a reason people made such a fuss about it. And if what she felt from a single look was any indication of what awaited...

She had the sudden, mortifying thought that he probably _knew_ , too — the fact that she'd considered it. How could he not? She didn't have a face for lying, and couldn't even hide her thoughts from her own reflection. And how must she have looked, standing behind the bar, stupefied by his intentions and all her feelings bared with her heart. She didn't know whether to thank Ben for walking in, or lament the timely interruption.

She wondered then, what Emiko would have done, if she'd been alive to witness Makino's embarrassingly obvious deterioration of sense and self. Laughed, probably, and then given her an earful for being a fool.

Makino embraced the thought, a strange comfort offered by the prospect, despite the sobering realisation that followed; that even if Emiko had been alive, odds were she wouldn't have been lucid enough to notice.

Still. What she wouldn't have given for even five minutes of lucidity, to ask for advice. Even if all she got for her troubles was a scoff and a cuff to the back of her head, for overthinking things.

Casting a wary glance at the door, she worried the inside of her cheek between her teeth. How long had she been gone? The noise hadn't relented, so it was safe to say their party was still ongoing.

She heard his laughter then, cleaving through the din beyond the door, louder than anything else, and the ache in her stomach dropped lower, the reaction so startling it sent Makino scrambling to her feet.

_God, you're being ridiculous. Just go back out there! Nothing is going to happen._

She tried not to think about the fact that she couldn't seem to decide if the last thought was meant to be encouraging, or the opposite. But with a breath for courage she squared her shoulders, twitching fingers hesitating only a moment before gripping the doorknob, the brass cool against her palms.

And then she was pushing into the common room, the tumult of noise wrapping around her, welcoming her back, and dragging her without mercy straight into the trajectory of that dark gaze sitting behind the counter.

His grin flashed, a thing of unabashed delight. And something else that she couldn't quite name. "Ah, there she is! I told you she was coming back, Ben."

Aware that her smile had to look as awkward as it felt, Makino tried to soften it into something smaller, and to keep her gaze from locking onto Shanks'. Not that the one beside him was any better, Ben's look both knowing and curious, and Makino stifled the sudden urge to forcibly wipe it off his face with the dish-rag she'd taken into her hands, and was wringing rather violently.

"I only said there'd be no surprise on my end if she'd made a run for it," Ben said, deadpan. Then with a glance at his captain, "You've driven braver souls away in the past. And in half the time."

Shanks raised his glass. "And only the very best remain!" he declared, to which a rousing chorus of agreement rose to answer him, before he brought the glass to his lips with a wink.

Despite herself, Makino found a smile at their easy interaction, but kept her gaze resolutely fixed on Ben as she asked, ignoring the weight of Shanks' eyes watching her from over the bar-top, "Is he really that difficult?"

If he could tell how breathless she sounded, Ben didn't let on. "Something of an understatement, that," he drawled, ignoring the indignant mutter of _'understatement?'_ from beside him. "And you've only seen him in his better moods."

"There are worse?"

That sparked a smile, the corner of his mouth quirking, and it was a curiously gratifying sight. For all his unshakeable calm, Ben was every bit the verbal sparring partner Shanks had promised, and Makino found she enjoyed the quick repartee, if still something of a stumbling venture on her part. But she was getting better at it, growing progressively more comfortable in their presence.

Well. With one of them, anyway, but Ben's attention allowed her some reprieve from the relentless gaze of the man sitting beside him, and for her mind to focus on something other than mutilating the rag in her hands.

"Making jokes at my expense again, Benny?" Shanks asked, raising his glass to his lips, and a brow in mild accusation.

"As always, Captain."

A sigh, and, "Do you see what I have to put up with?" Shanks asked Makino. "I should find myself a new first mate. Someone who worships the sea beneath my ship. And the ship. And _me."_

Ben didn't miss a beat. "I'd give him a week."

"You have such faith in this man, Ben-san," Makino cut in, surprising herself — and them, going by the slight lift of their brows. "I'd give him a day, if he's patient."

Shanks' expression looked like it was wedged somewhere between astonishment and reluctant pride. But to Ben, "Look what you've done!" he whined. "You've turned her into _you_!"

"A quick study," Ben remarked mildly, gaze meeting Makino's, and the gleam in his eyes made her smile lift.

"It's a conspiracy if I ever saw one," Shanks said. "You're not brewing a mutiny, are you?"

"If I was, would I tell you?"

Shanks' mouth pursed, the smile refusing to be held back. Makino had to drag her eyes away from it. "A different captain would have your tongue cut out for that kind of cheek."

Ben shot Makino a look. "He also wouldn't need my tongue to talk him out of all the trouble he gets into."

 _"Hey._ Don't think I don't see you trying to engage her in this pile-on you're instigating," Shanks warned. Then, grin flashing, "But you're getting quicker, Ben," he quipped, visibly pleased. "If this keeps up I might have to start making a conscious effort."

Ben's only response to that was a shake of his head, and when he put his glass down the request was an entirely wordless thing, and Makino refilled it, a smile tucked at the corner of her mouth as she observed them from under her lashes.

A beat of silence passed between the three of them, a bubble of quiet expanding in the sliver of space left between the laughter and conversation at their backs, and Makino tried to ignore the note of tension that sat in it, seeming to have slipped in between one breath and the next. Or maybe it was just her imagination.

"So," she began, clearing her throat. "How are the repairs on the ship coming along?"

Ben cut his captain a look, to which Shanks rolled his eyes. "She's not trying to get rid of us, Ben. We're welcome here. Isn't that right, Makino?"

She allowed her hum to sit a little longer than necessary on her tongue, and watched his eyes flash with delighted challenge. "Suzume-san seems to have taken a liking to you all," she said at length. "And you know Luffy adores you."

The look he gave her was equal parts fond exasperation and keen understanding, although something told her he wasn't about to let her off the hook that easily. "I was talking about you _,_ my girl, but now that you mention it, where is the kid? Thought he'd be down here by now. It's been almost two days."

Her smile was its own challenge, and she watched his brow lift at the sight, before she said, "He caught the sniffles running around without a jacket, so he's in bed. He tried to sneak out yesterday, without much success."

Shanks' smile was all boyish cheek. "Without a jacket, huh? Not the sharpest tool, that one," he mused, nudging his empty glass towards her.

Makino refilled it, too distracted by the smile to notice what sat behind it, and so couldn't curb the startled hitch of her breath when his fingers brushed against hers as he accepted it back, a touch too deliberate to be an accident.

And oh, he knew what he was doing, she could tell, watching as he lifted the glass to his lips, that entirely distracting mouth tucking a smile against the rim.

When she'd gathered herself enough to locate her voice, "You're one to talk, Captain," Makino managed, somehow without sounding as breathless as she felt.

"Hey, I'm wearing shoes now, aren't I? Did it just for you, too. Well, that, and because the socks itched. And I looked ridiculous."

"More so than usual?" Ben cut in.

Shanks let loose a laugh; for a split second it was loudest sound in the room. "About time you decided to rejoin us! Here I was thinking I was going to have to start putting out bait."

"Let's pray it never comes to that."

She was idly aware that she'd polished the same glass three times, but if either of them had noticed, they kept from pointing it out. But Makino didn't for a second think that it had escaped them; the distress she'd shoved down under an impressive cover of sheer stubbornness. It was a shared awareness that there was something going on, although the only one who seemed to have no qualms about displaying his thoughts was Shanks; Ben at least had the discretion to curb his knowing look into something that didn't make Makino want to scream into the dish-rag.

The inside of her cheek caught between her teeth, she watched the glass in her hands. No a smudge in sight, but her hands were restless, and she had the sudden, acute sense that if she allowed them to relax she'd to something stupid — like look for reasons to touch his.

She thought about his fingers brushing against hers. The smiling graze of his stubble against her knuckles.

What if he were to kiss her?

The thought lodged with her heart in her throat, and Makino was surprised the glass didn't crack under the sudden pressure she applied to it. And she couldn't curb the flutter of anticipation that followed, sinking with warmth back down into her chest, then lower still.

She didn't look at Shanks, fearing suddenly what she'd find on his face if she did; a mirror to her own, maybe, although Makino doubted his thoughts were anything like hers. He'd probably done this particular dance a hundred times — the fingers bumping, the laden looks. He was probably just waiting for her to reciprocate, gauging her reaction to determine whether or not his advances would be welcomed.

 _Would they?_ The answer seemed to sit just beyond her reach, teetering on the edge of indecision. Although — what harm was there in a kiss, really? It wasn't like there was anyone else around offering to do it, and even if there had been, Makino doubted she would have found the prospect even half as tempting as the idea of kissing Shanks.

And thinking about it now — the slant of that grinning mouth against hers, and the stubble on his chin, not grazing her knuckles but her cheek...

She knew the blush had to be visible from across the room but kept her eyes fixed on the glass in her hands, refusing to look up, knowing what would greet her if she did. Instead she flicked her gaze to the window, and the stretch of dark sea beyond the glass. It threw her reflection back, and with a breath her hands stilled in their relentless polishing, arrested by the sight — a lone figure behind the bar, small against the considerable size of the counter, glass in hand.

All the noise in the room felt suddenly like it had been sucked into a vacuum, and in the blink of an eye Makino saw someone else in her place; a ghost barely a few weeks old, scowl firmly in place and greying blonde hair curled at the nape of a neck bent under a long life of disappointment. No one beside her, like there'd been no one to see her off in the end but a single, foolish girl already well on her way to follow in her footsteps.

_Don't give your heart to a man who'll never return, girl. Waiting is a fool's game._

_And you deserve better than that._

Dragging her eyes back from the window, she forgot that she'd been trying to avoid looking at him, compelled beyond reason by the sudden need to do just that. But when she did it was to find him laughing, eyes squeezed shut with the sheer force of his mirth, his shoulders shaking, and the sound of it broke the spell, seeming to physically shove all the sound back into the room.

But the release of his gaze allowed her a moment to breathe — to reach past the cloudy haze of her earlier anticipation and to the part of her that knew, and with a sudden, staggering certainty, that a kiss from him would never be just that.

 

—

 

She should have been ready to keel over by the time the crew finally retired, hours past her usual closing time. But it wasn't with irritation that Makino saw them off, returning their waves and offers of a good-night as they took their leave, back to the ship nursing her healing wounds by the wharf. Instead it was something kin to reluctance, watching them clear out of the common room, the scrape of chairs against the floor and the soft remnants of inebriated mirth sitting in their wake a beat longer than the men themselves.

She liked the noise they brought, filling the space that had been left open since her Mistress' passing. And despite her initial scepticism, she enjoyed their shameless revelry and love of life. When they left it would just be her again, and her handful of regulars, most of which retired well before midnight, and none of which left her breathless and red-cheeked from laughter.

The sky beyond the windows getting lighter by the minute, she busied herself with her closing routines. On any other day she would have been asleep on her feet, but for some reason sleep seemed beyond her.

Well. Not just  _some_ reason. There was a very good reason rest eluded her grasp, although after the turmoil of indecision she'd put her heart through over the course of a single evening, Makino was loath to acknowledge it.

Of course, that didn't mean it would let itself be ignored. And even after he'd left, Shanks' presence seemed to linger, his departure releasing her from under the weight of his gaze, but not from the thought of him.

Dish-rag gripped between restless fingers, Makino let it drop to the counter as she turned to fetch the mop, the sound of the bat-wing doors swinging shut and the cheerful farewells of the last remaining pirates following at her heels as she stepped into the cool storage-room.

And then, silence.

Running a hand through her hair found her kerchief askew, the strands slightly damp between her fingers, but her grimace was softened by the sigh that shook loose of her shoulders. And all at once she felt _tired,_ to the extent that she considered just going to bed, and to leave the rest of her cleaning to the morning hours. It would be a first, but after the night she'd had, Makino didn't think she could have lifted the mop of she'd wanted to.

Then, decision made, she made to untie her apron, turning to walk back into the empty common room—

—only to realise that she wasn't quite as alone as she'd thought.

"Captain?"

He was seated at the bar, as though he'd never left, although Makino was sure that he had — the feeling of his eyes on her back had disappeared, after all, along with that curious weight his presence seemed to carry with it everywhere. But there he was now, sitting casual-as-you-please, like he'd been made to fit, and she attempted a smile, hoping it didn't convey the fact that all her thoughts had come screeching to an abrupt halt, and that he couldn't tell just how breathless she felt when she spoke, "Did you forget something?"

"You're uncomfortable."

For all that their acquaintance had been a brief affair, she'd grown to expect his perceptiveness to some extent. And knowing that denying it was pointless, Makino let her smile drop. "Am I going to have to say why, or do you know that, too?"

He cocked his head, his smile a little crooked. "I can make an educated guess."

There was a remark on the tip of her tongue, that she wasn't in the mood for teasing, but she swallowed it before she could speak it. And the surrendering sigh that left her held defeat, knowing what was coming; that he wasn't going to let her get away with just nursing her ugly crush in peace.

"About what happened," she said then, worrying the worn apron between her fingers. "If Ben hadn't showed up—"

"Then I would have kissed you."

Her whole face erupted with warmth, and she looked away, scrambling to fix her gaze on anything but the one regarding her calmly from over the counter. But, "No use beating around the bush, I see," she murmured, the words too soft for the frustration that sat behind it. And she couldn't make herself look at him, knowing what she'd find — an entirely even expression, tinged with humour but not yielding so much as a hint of the same affliction that was all but killing _her._

Shanks laughed, a softer sound than she'd come to expect, and her stomach did a small flip of betrayal. "Not a chance. Unless that would make you more comfortable? In which case, I'm well-versed in circumventing bushes."

Makino tried to coax her expression into something a little less obvious. "I—no. Blunt is fine. Just fine. But now that that's out of the way—"

"You would have kissed me back."

Forgetting what she'd been about to say, Makino blinked, taken aback by the matter-of-fact remark, and allowing her whole face to show it. But the response pushed off her tongue a beat later, a clearly embarrassed splutter, "I— _excuse_ me? I would not!"

Shanks' smile killed any hopes she might have harboured that she'd managed a convincing lie. "Yes, you would."

She bit the inside of her cheek. And the heat in her cheeks gave her away, Makino knew, but, "Wishful thinking, Captain?" she asked.

His grin widened at that, challenge alighting in his eyes. " _Shanks._ And you need to become a much better liar, my girl, if you ever want to convince anyone with half a mind that you're telling the truth."

She realised her huff sounded petulant, but the look on his face had breathed something old and rebellious back to life within her. "I'm not lying," she said, a firm-tongued remark to rival his earlier surety, although she heard the quaver of her lie, lurking beneath them. Still, she forged on, "I wouldn't have kissed you back then, and I wouldn't kiss you now even if you were to—"

The sudden darkening of his eyes almost made her take an involuntary step back. "Not—not that that was in any way a challenge, Captain. What are—no, sit back down. It wasn't a challenge!"

Just how he'd made it out of his chair and around the counter before she'd had time to blink, Makino didn't know, but then he was there, a solid warmth of partially bared chest and broad shoulders blocking the view of the common room, close enough to touch. Her squeak of surprise rushed out in a breath, and the gentle seize of her chin halted the next in her chest, calloused fingers catching against her skin and the full weight of his eyes bearing down on her, and at such close quarters that for a single second there was nothing else—

It took her a moment to realise that she'd let her eyes slip shut, surprise yielding to something else that she only recognised as anticipation a second too late, racing up her spine like a gunshot.

But what followed wasn't the complete and wanton discarding of inhibitions that she'd so often read about — the kind that saw caution thrown to the wind, along with whatever articles of clothing were still left to rip from broad shoulders and straining bosoms. Instead, realising suddenly just what she was about to let him do, it was like a bucket of ice-water had been dumped over her head, anticipation extinguished in a blink and something like freezing shock gripping her spine in a vice. Her eyes flew open, and her stolen breath returned, only to lodge like a rock at the bottom of her throat.

And— _scared,_ she realised a moment later, and saw when he read it on her face, the slant of his brow tugging on the scars, and pulling his features into something she didn't recognise.

For a moment neither of them moved, and Makino felt the unyielding wall at her back, trapping her between it and the length of him. And it was like the day he'd first stepped through her doorway and she'd begged for the wall to let her sink through it, although now she couldn't seem to decide if she wanted the same, or to sink into _him,_ standing so close she could feel the even beat of his heart under the loosely clinging shirt. His presence felt like a physical thing — a caress as palpable as the gentle grip on her chin, and suddenly it was all she could do to remain standing.

Then Shanks let his hand drop, stepping back from her within the same breath, and Makino was surprised she didn't stumble forward at the release. And, "Looks like my intuition was wrong," he murmured, the surprisingly rough words finding a home at the bottom of her ribcage. His smile was apologetic; the crooked lilt of it a keenly self-deprecating thing. "I apologise for my forwardness, Makino-san. I hope you'll forgive me?"

Her mouth worked, but whatever words she was grasping for she couldn't find them, let alone get them out. After all his easy endearments, the sudden formality of address struck like a slap. "Captain—"

But Shanks only shook his head, plucking his straw hat off the counter and flashing her a grin that looked so convincing she felt that, too, like she'd been struck. "Never let it be said that I'm not a shameless opportunist, but even so, I won't overstep my boundaries." He tugged the brim of the hat down, shielding his eyes, and suddenly the release of them felt anything but a mercy. "Have a good night, Makino-san."

Then he turned to leave, draping his cloak over his shoulders in a single, practised motion, and the words she hadn't be able to find before rushed out of her, unhindered—

"I couldn't take it!"

It stopped him in his tracks, but he didn't turn back to look at her. Makino felt her hands clenching, the forceful dig of her fingertips into the soft fabric of the apron helping to root her fleeting certainty, at least enough to speak, although when she did it was a fumbling, breathless affair, eloquence sacrificed for the sudden, desperate need to explain herself.

"I couldn't take it if—if things were to become something else, something...more, because I—I couldn't possibly get involved with you if it's just a one-time thing. Maybe you could, but I...can't."

He still hadn't turned around, but before her courage could flee beyond reach, "I feel too much already, and maybe that's on me, but I don't—I don't want to think about what would happen if—" _Gods above, Makino, just say it._

But she couldn't — could barely think about _that_ without her own thoughts stuttering, and there was a frustrated shriek threatening in her chest, faced as she was with her laughably inarticulate handling of the situation. She had to sound like such an _idiot_. Or worse, she had to sound exactly like what she was — a sheltered, inexperienced girl in over her head.

She felt a sigh shudder out of her, and closed her eyes, suddenly unable to look at him — at the broad expanse of his back still turned towards her. Shanks hadn't spoken a single word since he'd turned to walk out, and unable to see his face, she couldn't even guess at what he was thinking. But it couldn't be far from her own thoughts — disappointment, maybe not for her prudence, but for an opportunity that had yielded more trouble than it was worth.

"I'm sorry that I can't be—different," she said then, halting over the word, and remembering their conversation. She wondered how many girls had reciprocated his advances in the past, and without regrets. And there was a part of her that wished she could do the same, if only to feel _wanted,_ just for a moment.

But even as she considered it, she felt that keen ache in her chest tighten its grip; the one she now recognised as the first, tentative beginnings of heartsickness. And it wouldn't be just a moment, she knew. Not for her, at least.

"I'm sorry that I can't feel differently," she added softly, although if she was apologising to Shanks or to herself, Makino didn't know, "but it's who I am, and even if I tried to change that—"

"Don't."

She blinked, gaze lifting in surprise from where she'd let it drop, only to find that he'd turned back towards her. He was watching her now, features drawn in an expression that she still couldn't place. But taking it in, the heavy press of his brow and the downwards slant of his mouth, something told her the only reason she'd been able to read him at all before was because he'd let her.

"Don't ever change who you are," he said then. "Not for anyone."

He smiled, the corner of his mouth lifting, but it held only a shadow of the genuine mirth she'd come to expect. It didn't look right on his face, but before she could open her mouth to tell him, "You're quite unlike anyone I've ever met, Makino-san," Shanks said, and she couldn't decide if the words were meant to sound factual, or softly marvelling.

Then, the sombre smile bleeding into something harder, "And I would never take you that lightly," he added. "If anything, know that."

There was a protest sitting on her tongue — something that felt like it could be a shout just as easily as a sob, but before she could let either slip, his smile was back, bright and genuine like he'd shrugged off the weight she could still feel on her shoulders, and when he gave a nod of his head it was a keenly parting gesture.

"Take care," he said simply.

And then he was gone.

Her discarded apron slack between her fingers, Makino watched the empty spot where he'd been standing, sitting like a physical impression in the air, as though the rest of the room was trying to shape itself around it, seeking his laughter, long gone now. And she'd thought she'd known the meaning of emptiness on her Mistress' passing, feeling it in the walls, sitting under the ceiling beams; a vacuum of grief and longing and loss. But acceptance, too, like death always demands.

But left in his wake, the silence had never seemed so pressing, and her empty tavern never so lonely as when she was faced with the sudden, sinking realisation that what she found in the emptiness now was regret.

 


	6. and trust, bound like leather

There were times Makino found herself wondering if spinsterhood was a foregone conclusion of choosing the backwater village life, or if it was just Fuschia that inspired what, for all intents and purposes, seemed to be a running trend of unmarried women well past their prime.

She was well-acquainted with the concept. Her Mistress had been one of the more infamous in her time, although Makino suspected she'd been given some concessions, escaping the brunt of the village scrutiny if only for the fact that she'd adopted a child. The antiquated notion that motherhood was life's sole purpose for anyone with a womb to fill was still alive and kicking in Fuschia, at least where the older generation was concerned.

Barring one rather notable exception, that is.

The woman seated at Makino's bar had a look about her that invoked the rough, salt-stained mercy of a jagged reef, seeking the soft hulls of passing ships to break and scatter in shallow waters. A deceptively small stature for the sheer size of her personality, she was a wiry knot of hard, sinewy limbs, her flint-like countenance softened only by her mass of greying hair, where only a few, stubborn strands of black remained, refusing surrender.

The tumbler in her hand tipped against a rough palm, the amber liquid catching the first rays of sunlight filtering through the bank of windows, and Makino observed her as she considered her drink. It was a few hours until her usual opening time, and too early for a shot as stiff as the one Makino had just poured her, but then it was a well-known fact that Suzume had, at least as the woman herself would put it when questioned, 'few shits left to give'.

Fast approaching seventy (or at least that's what she'd have them all believe, anyway; Makino wasn't wholly convinced there wasn't a missing decade in there somewhere), she was known first for her independent nature, second for her complete and cheerful disregard of existing social norms — or the other way around, depending on the time of day, and who you asked. But the village had made its reluctant peace with her; a strategic surrender, as you could sooner convince a hundred-year oak to grow in a different direction.

There was a saying about old scotch, Makino remembered — an acquired taste for most, which seemed an oddly fitting description, given the woman's own love for the drink. And a constant in Makino's life since her infancy — unsurprising, given the fact that she was raised by the owner of the village tavern — she'd long since adapted to the changing currents of that entirely unpredictable, at times volatile, nature.

Her penchant for cheerful vulgarity, though...Makino didn't think she'd ever get used to that. Of course, that had never stopped Suzume, driven by shameless cheek as easily as spite, and although she'd never once treated her to the latter, Makino's delicate nature was practically a screaming invitation for the first.

And it didn't really help that the old woman could read her like an open book.

"Alright, out with it, brat. What's eatin' you?"

Recognising the folly of meeting that keen gaze, Makino kept her eyes trained on the bar-top, aware that if she so much as lifted her chin she'd have the answer to her question — and more besides.

Sudden mortification gripped her, imagining what the old woman would make of her troubles. Nothing good, if Makino knew her; which she did, and a little too well for comfort. Her frequent visits throughout her childhood might have been more for Emiko's benefit than Makino's, but her Mistress' passing hadn't stopped her from coming by, seeming entirely indifferent to the fact that Makino was now the proprietor.

Then again, she probably didn't care just who filled her glass, so long that there was someone to do it, and part of Makino had been unduly pleased at being treated like an adult, and not like she was still Emiko's bookish ward, better suited for stacking shelves with books than bottles.

The other part had been less than pleased, discovering that with Suzume's acceptance of her new post also came everything she'd subjected Emiko to — meaning a distressing number of lewd anecdotes, and no filter to sift them through. And it was still a little disconcerting, being forced to endure the sexual escapades of a woman she looked upon as something like a grandmother. Albeit a coarse, scotch-drenched grandmother, but that was entirely beside the point.

She'd tried telling her she wasn't Emiko, who'd suffered everything with a straight face, tinged only with the barest spark of gruff amusement, but it was like talking to a wall. And so despite herself, she felt a curl of relief now, the subject changed to something other than the all-too-graphic recounts of the older woman's conquests, oceans and flesh alike, and the mildest of which had put Makino's most explicit bodice-ripper to shame.

Although catching a glimpse of the older woman's expression, Makino felt a sinking suspicion that having the subject centred on _her_ wasn't any safer.

"I don't know what you're talking about, Suzume-san," she said, focusing her attention on folding the rag in her hands. One, two, three times, before she shook it loose and started over.

Her attempted misdirection was met with a snort. "I wasn't born yesterday, kid. And you're the worst liar I've ever met. So spill. What's with the look?"

She considered for half a second whether or not to point out that the first remark was something of an understatement, but swallowed her cheek. It might have earned her a laugh, but wouldn't get her off the hook, or out from under the scrutiny of those sharp eyes that, to Makino's dawning horror, had sparked with intrigue.

She tried to let her face go blank, to smooth her features into nonchalance, but didn't need Suzume's arched brow to realise just how spectacularly that particular venture failed. But, "There's no look," she said at length, rooting around for something to soften the lie into a believable excuse. "I'm a little tired, that's all." And she was. She'd barely had a wink of sleep, yesterday's events still fresh in mind, and Suzume at her door before the sun.

Suzume regarded her closely, brows furrowed above eyes that seemed for a moment to look right through her. Then, crooked mouth tugging upwards, realisation manifesting in a sharp, toothy smile, like a shark sniffing blood in the water, "It's a man, isn't it?"

 _Oh — damn it._ "There's no m—"

"It's Red, isn't it?"

"I'm not—"

A hum cut her off, sounding too soft for the wicked smile that had stretched along her mouth. "A nice rear on that one," she mused, and Makino flushed like a beet, but before she could protest, "Been years since I saw one that firm," Suzume said, before adding with a scoff, "Although that's not surprising. Only sagging, overripe melons around these parts."

"Suzume-san!"

She threw a panicked glance towards the doors, suddenly afraid someone should walk in — and heaven forbid, the object of their conversation himself. Given his particular brand of terrible timing, Makino wouldn't have put it past him, although the way they'd left things hadn't exactly suggested an invitation to return, all things forgiven and forgotten.

She ignored the clench in her gut at the thought, turning her attention back to the woman grinning at her from over the counter, and she had to fight down her blush, although she felt stubbornly justified in her reaction. It was one thing having to suffer the explicit descriptions of all the men she'd conquered in her time; it was something else entirely hearing her refer to someone Makino knew. And the Captain, of all people.

For her part, Suzume seemed entirely indifferent to her distress. "Does that mean the quiet one is up for grabs?" Her flash of teeth held a terrible promise. "And I mean that both figuratively and literally." At Makino's mortified expression, she only grinned. "I usually like 'em with a little more spunk, but that one's good-looking enough to make a girl forget." A thoughtful hum followed, and to herself, "Reminds me of someone I used to know..."

Fearing that she was gearing up for another, entirely unasked-for anecdote, Makino tried to protest, "Suzume-san—"

"What, you've laid claim to that one, too?"

Makino blinked, taken aback. "Laid _claim?_ I haven't—"

"Good. You've got Red already, after all. Need to leave some fresh pickings for the rest of us." She shot her a look, lifting her glass, "And for once I'm not being literal when I say that." 

"Suzume-san," Makino sighed.

"What?"

Palms tucked against her cheeks, she wondered idly if she could physically force her blush back under her skin. "Not that I don't appreciate your... _vivacity_ , but I'm telling you, there's no man," she said. "So it would be nice if you didn't...say anything. To anyone. About anything."

There was far too much amusement on that old face, Makino thought. "Oho. Don't want Garp to find out, do you?"

Makino pressed her lips together, but didn't drop her gaze. "It would be preferable, yes, if he was kept out of this."

"'This' being the non-existent affair you _don't_ have with Red?"

Despite her efforts, she couldn't quite manage a convincing smile. "That's the one."

Suzume's amusement dropped, chucked like an old rag, and her look was suddenly all too knowing. "Oh, kid. What did you do?"

Part of her resented the assumption that it was something _she'd_ done, even as she knew the truth for what it was, but, "I didn't do anything," Makino said, dropping her eyes to her hands. "I just...stopped myself from making a mistake I would regret."

The dish-rag stared back at her, cheerfully mocking, and Suzume groaned. "Oh, you mulish thing. The man's got it bad enough to come back to this backwater dump, and you're talking about  _regrets?"_

Makino opened her mouth to protest, but found herself promptly cut off, "You know how many girls wait their entire lives for a man like that? No? Well I wager it's a fair amount, because there sure as hell aren't many of his sort around. And I'm not just talking about the rear."

It was testament to her distress that she didn't even blush at the mention this time. "It's not that. I'm just—"

"Afraid to get your heart broken?" And from another woman the question might have been tender with understanding, but all Makino got was a snort. "Well let me tell you something, brat — that's what romance is all about. It ain't sunshine and velvet waistcoats and curtains in the wind and whatever the hell else is in those books of yours. It's tears and broken hearts littered all the way to hell. And that's the solid truth. Take it from someone who's been there and back again."

She huffed then, a softer sound this time, although anyone would be loath to call it fond. "But you know...the real stuff's worth all that. That's also the solid truth. I've lived a damn long life, and I've had my share of adventures, some I could've done without, mind, but you don't want to be my age and not have experienced _that._ "

Makino watched her, worrying the inside of her cheek as she let the words sink in. Then she turned her eyes to the window, and the quiet sea beyond the glass. It was too bright to see her reflection now, and all that greeted her was the horizon; an unblemished stretch of blue, no sails or clouds to distort the perfect line.

"He's a pirate," she said at length.

Suzume grinned. "Aye, he is, and a damn good-looking one at that. A godsend to this old woman, I tell you. Death would take me grinning with a man like that around." Then, brows lifting suggestively, "'Course, I'd rather death took me in the throes a good climax, but I'm too old to be picky."

And _there_ was her elusive blush, back with a vengeance, but, "You never change, Suzume-san," Makino sighed.

She laughed — a hoarse, unflattering cackle, but it held an earnest warmth that made Makino's smile lift. "Damn straight. And don't go thinkin' I will!"

Makino only shook her head. She was picking at an old crack in the counter; a fissure running like a vein through the wood. She thought of the scars on Shanks' face; the way they'd lift when he smiled. "Do you really think it would be worth it?" she asked, after a lull.

Suzume shrugged. "Gotta decide that for yourself, kid," she said. "But going by the look on your face, I'd say you're better off giving it a shot than leaving it be."

"But, Emiko—"

"—would have spent her life alone even if she'd let him go," Suzume finished for her, seeming to have no qualms about sharing that information now, when Makino had gotten nothing out of her in all the years she'd asked. "Brat wouldn't have any other, or at least that's what she screamed at Garp before she kicked him out of the bar thirty years ago. Anyone left from that time could tell you the same. One of her more memorable moments, I'll give her that. Then again, doesn't take much to rile this place up."

Trying to picture the scene, Makino smiled. "Garp-san might have mentioned an event like that."

At the thought, she felt a clench of something like guilt in her gut, and suddenly her smile no longer sat with the same ease. When she'd been younger, she'd often pondered the nature of Garp's relationship with her Mistress, but hadn't dared ask; had only assumed, with a child's naivete, that it was just how love and marriage worked. It had come as a surprise then, when Emiko had announced, in a bark of incredulous laughter, that they were in fact _not_ married, nor in love for that matter.

But for all her old Mistress' bluster and wholehearted denial, Makino couldn't help but wonder if Garp had always looked at it the same way. And was there anything worse than a love like that? The kind that wasn't reciprocated, or at least not in the way you'd want it to be.

"What are ya afraid of, Ma-chan?"

Makino looked up, surprised — partly because she'd just found her own thoughts voiced back to her, but also because Suzume hadn't called her _Ma-chan_ since since was ten, when she'd used to run in and out of the fabric shop, begging the old seamstress to sow ribbons on her dresses. Her adoptive mother had been nothing if not dishearteningly practical in all things, including hand-me-downs.

"I—" she paused, the words perched on her tongue for a single heartbeat, teetering, before she let them go with as sigh. "I guess I'm afraid I'll be disappointed," she murmured. "And that...I'm not going to recover from it." She fiddled with the dish-rag, and when she shrugged it was a tense, awkward gesture. "I always imagined romance meant I'd find someone who looked at me like the only girl in the world. Or the only one that mattered, anyway."

She tried for a smile, but had to let it drop when she realised just how much it felt like a grimace. "Is it...is it so strange to want that?"

The snort she got was expected — but the fact that it held no mockery was a surprise. "A bit naive, maybe, but...no, not strange. We all start out like that, I s'ppose. But there are a lot of ways to be looked at and feel desired, Makino."

Lip worried between her teeth, Makino nodded, but couldn't quite make herself voice her agreement. It wasn't so much the statement itself that was the problem, because she knew there was truth it in; but accepting it as fact felt like settling for less, somehow. Less than what she really wanted, anyhow.

"He's what, late twenties?" Suzume asked then. "Early thirties?"

Makino blinked. "What does that have to do with—"

A gnarled hand raised, halting her words. "He's older than you, for one. And yeah, he's a pirate. You're smart enough to realise what that means. And there's no way a man as charming as that, and who damn well knows that he is, hasn't had his cherry popped— gods above, brat, if that makes you blush you're in for a treat where I'm about to take this!"

Makino was very deliberately not meeting her eyes, and Suzume sighed. But,  _"Fine._ I'll spare your damn sensibilities. This time." When Makino hesitantly raised her eyes, the old woman said, "To put it _nicely,_ so you don't faint from the shock, it's safe to say he's had his share of experience in areas you're lacking. And don't come telling me you're not lacking, Ma- _chan_ , I've been watching over you since you took your first steps across this very bar, and I know everything there is to know about every damn soul in this village."

She scoffed, and then, "When it comes to sex, you're like one of those fawns learning to walk. Can't even talk about it without your knees buckling."

"Thank you for the image," Makino said, put-off, and tried not to blush at the casual mention.  _Don't do it. Don't. You'll only be proving her right, and — oh, damn it._

Suzume only raised a brow, the gesture telling enough about what she thought, but, "A good fit, isn't it?" she drawled. "But fawn or no, crux of the issue is, you're clueless and he's not. And so you're scared. It ain't much of a puzzle."

Her pout wasn't doing her any favours, Makino knew, but, "You don't have to remind me," she grumbled, indignation sparking at having her personal shortcomings waved in front of her face, and without reservations, a fact which was only underlined when Suzume gave her a look.

"I'll say whatever I damn well please. Now listen up—" Makino let her shoulders drop, and reluctantly lifted her eyes. "This ain't a novel — this life, that is, as I'm sure your broken record of an old lady's been telling you for years. But the broken record's got a point. If there's a man out there saving himself for the right girl, you can bet this entire establishment you won't find him on this island. And believe you me, two virgins in one bed is one virgin too many."

"Oh god," Makino groaned, thoughts suddenly going places they really shouldn't, and earning herself a bark of laughter for her efforts.

"Yeah. 'Oh god' is right," Suzume snorted. "Although between you and me, that's not usually how it goes with two virgins. Unless it's the horrified sort."

"Please stop."

"Only when I'm dead," Suzume shot back breezily. Then, grin lifting, "You're not a girl anymore, Makino. You're twenty years old, for heaven's sake. Gotta learn to live a little, or you'll be an old maid before you're thirty."

"My age is hardly relevant," Makino said, crossing her arms over her chest.

"Maybe it is, maybe it isn't." Suzume shrugged. "But what I'm trying to say is, if you're holding out for some knight or prince or whatever it is that's got your eyes glued to those damn pages, you're gonna be waiting for a while. Unless you try your luck on the sea, although I think you have a better chance at finding a virgin in these parts than you have getting past the next port. No offence."

"None taken," Makino deadpanned, but Suzume only grinned.

"Then again," she said, musing, "You could grab the chance you've been given — both cheeks, _firmly._ Gods know I would, if I were you. When I was your age I had to go overseas to find anyone even remotely good-looking. And even then there were slim pickings."

Makino was about to point out that she was well-acquainted with the merits of the different Blues, courtesy of the woman herself, when Suzume's grin suddenly dropped, and her teasing expression contorted into a serious mien that made Makino pause.

"Now don't get me wrong, kid — I'm not telling you to risk everything for a romp in the sheets. It's a damn dangerous game you're playing if there're feelings involved, and I can tell from your face that you're already in pretty deep."

Makino didn't bother correcting her, knowing it would be futile — not to mention, a lie.

"But," Suzume said then, "do you really want to be my age, looking back and regretting not taking a single gamble? Can't win the pot if you don't make any bets. Nothing ventured, nothing gained and all that."

A snort followed shortly after, and, "Then again," Suzume added, smile suddenly impish, and Makino dreaded what was coming even before she drawled, "Red looks like he'd be damn good between the sheets, so it probably won't be a total loss, even if it all goes tits up afterwards."

"Suzume-san!" At the trilling cackle that followed her protest, Makino threw a panicked glance towards the doorway. _If anyone overheard that..._

Suzume didn't seem to share her concerns. "Listen to you. So scandalised. Like you haven't considered it."

"I have not!"

The old woman rolled her eyes. "Prude or not, Makino, you're still a girl — nay, a grown-ass woman. You think I don't remember what went through my head at your age? Please."

Makino raised her eyes to the ceiling, as though to seek assistance, blush deepening with more than just embarrassment now. "I'm glad you find this amusing."

"I find it hilarious. Not that you're making it difficult, wearing all your emotions like that. It'd take a blind man not to read every single thought on your face."

Then, her eyes kindling with something that had Makino's heart dropping into her stomach, "Tell me," Suzume said, wicked grin flashing, "In your fantasies, is he on top? Mah, he'd have to be, innocent as y'are. Figures it's not much different inside your head. Here's some advice, though — try switching things up a bit. Lots of fun alternatives to think about, and Red looks like he'd be up for—"

The interruption was a godsend, Makino thought, the soft rap on the wall steering Suzume off track, but she changed her mind a second later, mortification overtaking her embarrassment, and she went from hot to cold in the span of a single breath as she looked up to find Ben Beckman stepping through the bat-wing doors.

"Is this a bad time?" he asked, politely overlooking the downright ferocious grin that spread across Suzume's face, and Makino had to give him credit for not even batting an eye at the shameless rake of that old gaze across his form.

She tried not to think about what he might have overheard, and hoped her smile didn't look as embarrassed as it felt as she said, "Not at all, Ben-san. Can I get you a drink?"

"Thank you, Makino-san," he said, "but I just came to inform you of our departure tonight."

Makino felt her smile as it dropped. "Tonight?" And she knew the quaver in her voice said what she didn't, even as she managed to swallow the words sitting at the back of her tongue —  _b_ _ut you've only been here three days._

Ben looked visibly sympathetic, a sight that struck her even harder than his earlier declaration. "The damage to the ship wasn't as extensive as we'd first thought, and Captain seems eager to set sail." The last part was enunciated with deliberate slowness, that keen gaze holding hers as he spoke, before Makino dropped her eyes to the bar-top.

"I don't ask questions," Ben said then. "I don't make a point to, and unless it's in direct danger to himself or the crew, I won't interfere with what the idiot says or does."

Makino said nothing, uncertain if she was receiving a lament or a lecture, but then — "You're a good influence," Ben declared, making her eyes snap back to his face. His expression was drawn with obvious amusement, and something she couldn't quite put her finger on. "Not even Doc's managed to get him to wear real shoes before."

He shrugged then, and, "He's used to getting his way, and the odd time he can't have something he'll discard the desire completely." He shook his head, a gesture of old exasperation, although it wasn't an unkind thing.

There was a prolonged moment of silence, and Makino prayed Suzume wouldn't break it by saying something inappropriate.

In the end, it was Ben who spoke first. "Our original course was through West Blue," he said, deadpan, and Makino couldn't have hid her surprise if she'd wanted to. "He might seem impulsive, but he's not short-sighted. And he's never changed our route before unless absolutely necessary."

She knew she sounded breathless. "Ben—"

He shook his head, as though to protest, although Makino didn't even know what she'd been about to say. "I'm not interfering, I'm just making observations. It's my job, after all. Well." He snorted. "That, and captain-wrangling."

He nodded his head to the two of them. "I should get back before the wool-head does something stupid," he said, and then gave her a  _look_ that made her wonder just how much Shanks had told him. Or maybe he hadn't told him anything — from what she'd learned so far, she wouldn't put it past Ben to have put the pieces together by himself.

Her nod felt automatic, like something outside her body was tugging at her limbs, nudging them into appropriate gestures, although her grip had gone slack around the dish-rag. And as she watched him turn for the doors, dark ponytail shifting with his movements, the finality of it all struck like a slap, along with the realisation that they wouldn't be coming back this time.

Despite herself, and the keen gaze watching her from over the counter, Makino dredged up a smile. "Goodbye then, Ben-san. Take care of yourself. And— and the Captain."

Ben inclined his head towards her. "And to you, Makino-san." And with a nod to Suzume, "Suzume-san."

Then he was gone, the soft whine of the doors remaining with the two of them, alone in the otherwise empty common room. Makino watched the doors until they stopped, and felt the silence that pooled like an ocean, until Suzume's voice broke it, a mournful sigh softening the sharp edge of her usual lilt—

"Where was that man forty years ago?"

 

—

 

The sun was a white-hot pearl — too bright to look at, and yet it provided no warmth as Makino made her way up the steep hillside. The light dusting of snow crunched happily beneath her feet, a soft, cheerful rhythm, but the cold seemed beyond her. And there were other things — the hill sloping awkwardly, as though it couldn't quite decide where it wanted to go, and the landscape blurring at the corners of her vision. And where was her book?

_Oh._

She was dreaming.

The thought was quick in coming but slow in settling, eyes latching onto the figure standing by the old oak, wiry arms crossed over her chest and glacial eyes fixed on the horizon.

"Mama?"

The word dragged from her mouth without thinking, and she felt a surge of horror — the realisation that she'd never once called her that, at least not when she'd been lucid enough to understand, and that she might be angry, hearing it now. But despite her panic, her feet were pushing her forward, and suddenly she wasn't a grown woman but a girl, a sob sitting in her throat—

"Always knew you'd fall for a man like that."

Makino staggered to a stop, mouth parting with wordless surprise. Then, those icy blue eyes finding hers, clear of the haze that had clouded her last moments, Emiko subjected her to an entirely knowing look, the corner of her severe mouth lifting. "Predictable girl."

Her mouth worked, but she didn't know what to say — not what she wanted to, or what she should, but, "I'm sorry," she managed, the apology dragging out of her with a choked sob.

Part of her knew she was dreaming, an awareness that loomed, bright like cold sun above their heads. But the guilt felt real enough, coiled like a snake in her gut.

 _"Tch,"_ Emiko clucked her tongue. "What are you sorry for?"

She pressed her lips together. "You told me not to fall for the wrong man, and I did it anyway. But I couldn't— it just happened, and I didn't mean to—"

"No one ever means to," Emiko cut her off, and Makino's mouth snapped shut. "That's not how love works. You don't plan it." She laughed — a sharp, gusting sigh, and then, dryly, "It's a little like being shot. You don't usually plan for that, either. Feels about the same, too."

Makino opened her mouth, then closed it. Then, "Yeah," she said, voice a little hoarse. "It feels a little bit like that." She plucked at her skirt. Contrary to what her novels would have her believe, dream sequences didn't include long, flowing nightgowns. "But I've let it go," she said then. "And wounds heal, right? With time. I just — I just have to give it time."

A snort was her answer, and she looked up, surprised. And, "No you haven't," Emiko said, understanding sitting in the words; an old, dry thing. "And no, they don't. Not always."

Makino was about to protest, but found herself cut off, "I know your heart, my fool girl," Emiko said. "Fierce little thing that it is. The damage has already been done, don't even try to tell me otherwise, because I know your face, too, and I could spot you lying from a mile away."

The familiar words should have rankled, but all they did was make tears press against her eyes, and suddenly she wanted nothing more than to hear them — the lectures she knew by heart, down to the inflection.

Emiko continued, "Might have made your choice, but you're not happy with it. You tell yourself you are, because you're a practical little thing. I know, because I raised you that way. Did a damn fine job of it, too. But that regret you're feeling? Won't change any time soon. Trust me on that."

Then, her eyes seeming suddenly far away; but not like she had, during those last, muddled years. This was something else, a look of a woman seeking old memories, not one thrust into them without her consent. "You'll push it away, at first," Emiko said, "and it might work, for a while. But it'll come back, you'll see. You might get married, and he might be a good man, but there's a part of you who'll always wonder what could have been. Hard not to, with a man like that."

Then, her expression softening, if that word could even be applied to a woman like her, "Regret like that doesn't just go away, Makino. And men like him might not, but that sticks around, for better or worse."

Her hands were shaking, and Makino tucked her fingers against her palms to still them. It rang a little too close to home — an eerie echo of her conversation with Suzume, and it bothered her, because _this_  — this dream-version of her old Mistress was saying things she was sure the woman herself would never have said if she'd been alive. Her mother was dead, and all of this was just part of her own imagination, wishful thoughts conjured by her own mind to satisfy her selfish urge to give in to her heart, despite her better judgement. The real Emiko would never have encouraged her to follow her down the same path — the one that had terminated in a lonely, half-lucid death with only Makino for company.

Would she?

The thought was a startling thing, but Makino silenced the small voice, raising her own instead. "What happened to not wasting my life waiting for someone who'd never return?" she asked. "I thought you wanted me to live a good life — not like _yours."_

She expected the apparition, or whatever she was, to bark back at her outburst, so it surprised Makino when a smile tugged at the edges of that sharp mouth. "I never said I didn't have a good life, Makino," Emiko said. "I had him, for as long as I did, and I regretted nothing in the end."

Then, her voice quieter now, "And I had you, and that's more than I could have ever hoped or asked for."

She paused, seeming to consider her words, before she said, "I wouldn't have traded those few moments I had with him for anyone else — not even the sturdiest husband on the four Blues. But that was my life, and this is your life, and your choice. Don't waste it waiting for someone that's not worth waiting for, but don't trap yourself with thoughts of what could have been, either. Love's never _easy_ — you'll find there's few who can carry the burden without struggle. And you will — struggle, that is. Same as him." She punctuated her words with a snort, but it was a sound too soft for a convincing rebuke. "Men like that — the elusive, charming ones? Always fall the hardest."

She looked at Makino then, her smile a wry cut of old mirth, but her eyes were still sharp and clear. "It's up to you. But make a decision, would you? I'm not spending the afterlife drinking myself into oblivion just because you can't get your daydreaming head out of your ass."

Then, blue eyes gleaming; sunlight slanting off a sheet of ice, she asked, "And whoever said he'd never come back?"

Her eyes shot open, a cold winter sky replaced with the ceiling of her bedroom, and her breath lodging itself in her throat with a choked gasp.

A second of complete disorientation followed, and she blinked up at the ceiling, scrambling for something to hold onto — something to make sense of the churning reel of impressions presenting themselves one by one before her mind's eye. Her Mistress, eyes on the horizon, and the sudden, breathless certainty that there was something she was supposed to remember.

A glance towards the window had her shooting upright, an oath tearing past her lips with uncharacteristic force. " _Shit!"_

The slit of glass left visible by the curtain revealed that although the sun was hours off yet, there was no mistaking the slowly greying light of dawn's hesitant approach. And the sight pushed her into moving, off the mattress and out of bed, almost tripping over her feet in her hurry to free herself of the tangle of blankets.

She had no mind for shoes, or even to grab her shawl as she bolted for the stairs, two steps at a time and her heart pushing up her throat, her body following the same urgency, across the common room and out the doors, left shrieking in her wake. The packed dirt of the street was a shock of cold against her bare feet, but Makino ignored it, setting off at a dead sprint, entirely unmindful of the air that cut, a knife through the sheer fabric of her nightdress, straight to the bone.

It didn't take long before the wharf was in her sights, and a relief like she'd never known pushed past the urgency, finding the ship still there. But as she came closer the realisation followed that they were very much in the process of raising anchor, and before she could think it through, the sight had pushed her voice up her throat and out her mouth, tongue wrapping around the syllables, often thought but never spoken—

**" _SHANKS!"_**

It was remarkable how _loud_  a voice could sound, flung out into total silence. Even hers, with its soft, mellow cadence, rang with authority now — and what was doubtless enough force to rouse every resident all the way across the island.

And even though the sight of every single head on the ship turning in her direction should have been enough to send her running in the opposite direction, Makino couldn't find it in herself to care, thoughts claimed in full by the sight of him, red hair like a beacon amidst the pirates crowding the deck.

 _She'd made it in time,_ and the breath that heaved from her chest nearly had her collapsing, hands on her knees and her back bent. And she let the tears come, feeling stupid with relief, a half-hysteric laugh threatening as she tucked her brow against her knees.

There was a vague awareness prodding at her mind, that she had to look like quite the sight, but she was too delirious to bother. And when she looked up, something like satisfaction chased whatever remaining doubts she might have had off to remote corners, finding his surprise, bright and earnest on his face.

She didn't move from where she stood, watching as he dropped from the ship down to the docks, a nimble grace that hinted at more than a sailor's ease, sitting in every line of his body. And there wasn't much distance left between them now, but Shanks took his time crossing it, eyes never once leaving hers, and Makino remained where she stood, alone but for the company of her heart, seeming to want to break through her ribcage.

On the deck of the ship at his back, she caught the crew politely turning their heads away, although some tried stealing not-so-covert glances over their shoulders, and she swore she saw Yasopp hand Ben something with a reluctant grimace.

Unwilling to ponder long on the apparent existence of a betting pool, Makino turned her gaze back to Shanks, still approaching with measured steps.

"A little early for you to be out and about, my dear?"

His expression a careful mixture of curiosity and suppressed anticipation, the sight helped settle her racing heart a bit, and his voice brought warmth to her limbs, stiff from the cold now that her body had had time to catch up with what she'd put it through.

The weight of his eyes was the same, dark-bright in the greying light, although they regarded her as calmly as ever, and she blushed at the attention, dropping her gaze to her bare feet.

"I know I look ridiculous," she began, the words escaping her in a rush. She winced. "I mean, I know this— that this might be  _confusing,_ considering what I said before. And I know you have no reason to listen to what I have to say, but the thing is, I've— I've been thinking."

Eyes still on her feet, she worried the inside of her cheek. Even with more than an arm's length between them she felt him, although she couldn't make herself lift her eyes to look at him. No, staring at her feet was the only way she could keep her focus long enough to say what she needed to say. If she looked at him now she'd lose her courage. Or her words. Possibly both.

"I know what I said, but I can't— I can't stop thinking about you...it. This." Her sigh was a harsh, incredulous thing, and she'd never been more frustrated that she couldn't seem to express her feelings in a more articulate manner. "What I'm trying to say is—"

The hand gripping her chin stole her words, and before the familiar gesture had even had time to register, he was kissing her, a small noise of surprise the only thing that made it past her lips, only to be claimed by the grin slanting against her mouth.

There was a moment of awkwardness — a single beat of still-startled inaction, and then she was sinking into the kiss, stiff limbs loosening, but anchored by the press of his hand against her lower back, a shock of warmth through the thin fabric of her nightdress. And then it all ceased to matter — her indecision and her stuttering words, the cold, and the fact that there was now a whole crew unabashedly watching, as Makino was sure she heard a _hoot_ or two from somewhere in that direction.

He'd pulled her close, enough so that she could feel him; the whole, solid shape of him, but her embarrassment was a fleeting and meaningless thing, forgotten with the soft graze of his stubble against her jaw, and the insistent press of his mouth, the rough fingers gripping her chin tilting her head to deepen the kiss. The hand against her back pushed her closer, the flat of his palm following the curve of her spine, until it stopped, a warm weight between her shoulder blades.

Uncertain as to where to put her own hands, she settled for shyly gripping his cloak, but any concerns she might have harboured about that particular matter fled her mind when he pulled back, and she was greeted with the widest smile she'd ever seen.

"I was right."

His voice was a low rumble, meant for her ears only, but tinged with honest amusement.

Makino blinked, puzzled, and still a little dazed from the kiss. "What?"

Shanks leaned close, the smile tucked against her hair a wicked, unduly pleased thing, and his breath grazing her ear in a caress she felt echoed deep in her gut. "Told you I'd have you calling me Shanks before the week was up."

Unexpected as it was, the remark was so utterly _him,_ Makino couldn't stop the laughter from bubbling up her throat, only spurred on by the boyish grin that came to settle on his face. "So you did."

The cold breeze tugging at her shift, she suppressed a shiver, but couldn't stop the goosebumps that followed. And only then did Shanks seem to take notice of her choice of apparel — or lack thereof, as happened to be the case.

His gaze swept across her form, and the short, loose nightgown that was neither very modest nor of a particularly thick fabric, and the combined realisation enough to tempt a furious blush across her whole, otherwise freezing body.

"Looks like I've been a bad influence," he murmured, the corner of his mouth quirking in a smile that told her he wasn't all that sorry. But then he was unfastening his cloak, wrapping it around her shoulders, warm hands lingering only a moment longer at her collar before he drew back, letting them drop to his sides as he regarded his handiwork. Then with a wink, "Although at least I had enough sense to wear shoes, even if they're only sandals."

The thing was much too large for her frame, reaching her ankles where it reached his knees, and making her look like she was wrapped in a tarpaulin rather than a cloak. But it was warm and comfortably heavy on her shoulders, smelling of salt and gunpowder and something she couldn't quite place, but that was undoubtedly him _._

Her grin was entirely too silly, Makino knew, and tried to hide it against the raised collar, tugging the cloak closer as she attempted to steal a whiff of it without being too obvious. And it might not be a velvet coat proffered at the heels of a heroic rescue, but the profound nature of the offering was far from lost in the simple, honest truth of it.

She was sure her blush could be seen by every single soul on the ship, but there was something bright and wild and wonderfully  _uncaring_ unfolding behind her ribcage, and she watched as Shanks' expression reflected her own, entirely ridiculous one.

And then she did something that took them both by surprise. Seized by a surge of sudden confidence, she found herself stepping forward, pushing up on her toes and winding her arms around his neck, her mouth seeking his in a kiss.

Well —  _seeking_ being the operative word. Their difference in height was a bit more than she'd calculated, and instead of catching his mouth Makino ended up bumping her head against his chin.

The slight jolt raced through her a moment before her mortification followed suit, and a moment wherein she considered the possibility of turning on her heel and bolting back to the bar. But Shanks didn't give her a chance to shy away as he dipped his head to catch her mouth again, hands lifting to cup her cheeks, and she felt his laughter now as he offered it, the quiet rumble lost to the kiss.

It wasn't like in the books — for so many reasons, the most prominent being that fictional heroines didn't _miss_ when they made their move (which was always a graceful demonstration of poise and long-suppressed desire, trickling out in a searing, elegant kiss, no chins bumping and fumbling hands in sight) — but her failed attempt at putting to life what she'd read about and imagined so many times was forgotten with the scrape of his stubble against her skin, this kiss too rough to be chaste, but then the same could be said for the man kissing her, Makino thought, and couldn't be bothered to mind that it wasn't a storybook kiss. There was no dramatic backwards dip, but his calloused hands cradling her jaw, and no butterflies in her stomach, but a hot clench of something in her gut that left her feeling curiously light-headed.

"That's my favourite cloak, you know," he kissed the words against her mouth, grinning. "It would be a shame if I forgot it somewhere." Drawing back, he eased her down, until her heels met the cold earth and she'd slipped her arms out from their grip around his neck. She didn't step away, remaining instead in the shadow of his half-embrace, the warmth seeping through his shirt tempting her fingers, but familiar hesitation kept her from reaching for him now.

When his eyes found hers there was a serious glint in them, despite the gentle humour colouring his words. "I might just have to come back and get it."

The implication as clear as the smile on his face, her breath felt light in her chest. "We better make sure you don't forget it, then."

His eyes gleamed. "I am pretty forgetful. Ben calls it the bane of his existence, and he might just have a point."

The laugh that pulled from her was soft, and inclining her head, Makino found the man in question, on the ship with his back to them, politely giving them privacy although the rest of the crew seemed to have abandoned all other activities in favour of watching them.

"There was a bet on whether or not you would show," Shanks said then. He was looking over his shoulder, brows furrowed — an action that, although at quite a distance, had the entire crew hastily abandoning their shameless voyeurism and scrambling to do other things.

She felt her cheeks warming, embarrassed, and yet strangely pleased at the thought. "Oh really?"

"Oh aye."

She tilted her head, eyes shyly searching out his. "And what did you bet I would do, Captain?"

Oh, the smile on his face was far too innocent. "I might have increased my private coffers. With quite a bit. Although in my defence, Yasopp was the only one who bet against it."

Makino frowned. "Yasopp? Why?"

That innocent smile turned suddenly devious. "Said you had too much sense. Guess you proved him wrong." She smacked his arm, and he laughed. "Hey— I had faith in you!"

"You think I don't have any sense!"

"Ah, ah. _Yasopp_ said that. I had great faith in you, mostly. You had me worried for a minute there, though."

For all his teasing, there was a touch of genuine concern in his voice, and Makino smiled, emboldened by the sight. Before she could talk herself out of it, she reached for his hand, curling her fingers around his, rough and warm against her palms. A sailor's hand — and a swordsman's, she remembered, although the weapon wasn't hanging at his waist now. And the comparison was stark, her own two not even large enough to cover one of his.

"You had me worried, you mean," she said then, quietly. "I thought I was too late."

Shanks twisted his hand, catching her fingers, before lifting them to his lips. He tucked his smile against her knuckles. "Ben _was_  weirdly adamant we take our sweet time preparing the ship. I have a feeling he had more money running in that bet than anyone else."

Makino could only shake her head. _What was that about n_ _ot interfering, Ben Beckman?_ "A sly one, that. Make sure he stays out of trouble?"

His laughter sent her heart soaring, and she wondered suddenly how quiet her life would be without it. "Quite the task you're giving me, love. Ben being the rascal that he is."

"Says the one reckless enough for the lot you combined."

His hand was over his heart. "You wound me, Makino. At this rate I'll have to spar with Ben daily if I want to keep up with your comebacks."

"Someone has to keep you on your toes, Captain," she countered.

"Shanks?" he tried, expression endearingly hopeful.

"Captain."

He pouted. "But you said it so well!"

Her smile was demure. "I don't know what you're talking about," she said. " _Captain_."

"God, listen to you," he laughed, delighted. "So much cheek. I'd kiss you, but I'm a little afraid of how you'd respond to that now, worthy adversary that you turned out to be."

The smile never left her lips. And before she had the chance to feel foolish for saying it, "You could always try and see what happens."

The look that kindled in his eyes stole her breath, the  _promise_  in his expression both terrifying and exhilarating all at once, and her quick wit abandoned her, fleeing on swift feet and leaving her scrambling for purchase.

Shanks lifted his gaze to the sky then, and the scorching look softened into something kinder — enough so that Makino could catch her breath. The sky had turned mother-of-pearl, dawn having come and gone, and the sun's first rays already creeping across the rooftops.

The thought came to her then, that people were going to be rising from their beds soon. And Shanks must have come to the same conclusion, because then he was tugging her close, tilting her chin to press a kiss to her brow; a parting gesture if she'd ever known one.

"It's time for us to set sail. I have a feeling we'll need to cover some distance before the sun climbs too high," came the murmur, tinged with something she couldn't name. And before she had time to ponder the mysterious words, or to ask what he meant, he was pulling back, the smile tugging at the scars over his eye a staggeringly attractive thing.

Her fool's heart responded in turn, by skipping a beat in her chest. And, "Tell Yasopp-san I'm sorry I'm not as sensible as he'd have me be," Makino said, as he drew back, and tried not to think about the release of his warmth, hugging the cloak tighter as Shanks made to walk back towards the ship, the edge of his smile her only answer before he'd turned his face away.

She watched as they raised anchor, smile small and pleased despite the twinge of sadness that accompanied the sight, and the realisation that he hadn't specified when they would return. But she took some heart from the waves offered by the crew, grin breaking out in truth as she watched them scrambling for the railing to lean over it, an exaggerated farewell that had happiness swelling in her breast, leaving no room for sorrow.

Only when the ship was little more than a speck on the horizon did she turn to walk back, smile still in place and Shanks' cloak tugged as close as it would get. And tucking her nose against the collar, she breathed in deep, without reservations or a shred of shame, and felt only a little foolish when a laugh pulled, light and breathless from her chest.

And when she'd folded it neatly on the chair by her bed, fingering a tear in the fabric that she made a note to mend later, Makino hummed, "Such a forgetful man." Smoothing her hand over the sable cloth, her eyes curved, and indecision and regret were long-forgotten things as she gave it a small, decisive pat.

"Looks like he'll have to come back and get it."

 


	7. a wrinkled spine, lovingly creased

Their hasty departure, Makino realised a few hours later, had its reasons.

"Ma-chan! Ma-chan, hide me!"

She wasn't given much time to react as Luffy came bounding into Party's common room, cheeks flushed and eyes wild, and before she'd even put down the glass in her hand he'd scrambled up and over the counter, to crouch beside her legs.

"Luffy, what's—"

" _ **LUFFY!"**_

The bat-wing doors slammed open, seeming pushed inwards by the sheer force of the booming shout, although the sharp _crack_ that followed told Makino there'd been a different kind of force applied, even before Garp stalked into the tavern, expression a tumult of familiar, grandfatherly rage.

Hanging off their hinges by a breath, one of the doors gave a low, mournful shriek, before dropping to the floor with a crash that heralded a single, impressive beat of silence.

Then — "Garp-san!" Makino snapped, slamming the glass down on the counter. But it did the trick, and Garp blinked, as though just now taking notice of her presence — the unimpressed frown and her crossed arms, and the cheerful carnage that remained of her entryway.

"Er — whoops?"

She threw her hand towards the doorway. "There is a proper way to use a door!"

He scratched his beard. "Ah, yeah. I'll have that fixed. Again." His smile was sheepish. "Sorry about that, Makino."

Makino gave a wave of her hand, as though to say all was forgiven, and her sigh was a thing of long-suffering and old, reluctant fondness. Maybe she was better off just removing the doors altogether. Gods only knew how many times she'd had them reattached.

She noticed Garp was still scratching his beard, looking a bit lost, and kept her gaze carefully level with his face, aware of the boy crouching beside her legs. "Can I help you with anything, Garp-san?"

"No, no. I was just wondering what I came in here for."

She felt Luffy tense, and her heart went out to the boy. Garp's visits usually meant some some new and harebrained training exercise, all done under the pretence of shaping his grandson into a future marine. Her old Mistress' relentless chores and break-of-dawn awakenings seemed tender-hearted in comparison.

She didn't even want to think about what he had planned this time. Going by Luffy's reaction alone, it couldn't be good. "Would you like a drink?" she asked, hoping that redirecting the conversation would allow her a chance to smuggle the boy upstairs without his grandfather noticing.

Garp opened his mouth to reply when a loud _sneeze_ cut through the quiet, and Makino's heart sank.

Garp's grin was a fierce thing. "Oh. Hiding runaways are you, Makino?"

"Garp-san, he hasn't been feeling well—"

"All the more reason for him to get some exercise! He's not getting any stronger just lounging about, and if he's going to be a marine—"

Luffy opened his mouth to protest, but a sharp look from Makino had him clamping it shut. There was something of a mutual agreement around the village that there would be no talk of pirates when Garp came to visit; an agreement that had taken surprisingly little effort to enforce, and Makino had to wonder at Shanks' influence, that even with some lingering reluctance, the village had seemed curiously okay with keeping the existence of the Red-Hair Pirates under Garp's nose.

Of course, Luffy had no guile to speak of, and so Makino had made a point to explain it — that Garp knowing of Shanks' visits would only make his own visits more frequent, or, heaven forbid, he might ask to be stationed in Fuschia temporarily — hoping it could at the very least prompt a stubborn desire to keep his mouth shut.

"Garp-san, let him rest. Please? Just for today," she tried. Her protectiveness of the boy tended to manifest in one of two things — either a fierce sort of anger that scared her a little with his intense it could be, or a coercive will that scared everyone else. Like Luffy, Makino didn't have much in the way of guile, but damn it if she couldn't be convincing if she wanted to.

Having levelled the full, relentless weight of her gaze on him, she saw the effect in the slight twitch of his fingers, before he yielded with a grumble, and Makino felt a swell of victory on her chest as he muttered,  _"Fine._ Rest today, then. But tomorrow the training starts! And don't even think about sneaking off!"

Breezing past the threat with a self-satisfied smile, Makino ushered Luffy upstairs, helping him into bed and piling several blankets on him to keep him warm.

"Ma-chan?"

Brushing his hair away from his face, she felt her expression soften. An only child, she didn't know what it was like, growing up with siblings; Luffy had been the closest thing she'd known to one. And yet there was a sense that this was different, somehow. "Yes, Luffy?"

Bleary eyes watched her from the cocoon of covers she'd tucked him into. "Is Shanks coming back?"

"I think so. He forgot his cloak when he left."

"D'you think he's got more stories for me?"

She smiled, giving his hair a fond ruffle. "I'm sure he's got plenty new ones for you, Luffy. Pirates go on adventures all the time. He's probably getting into trouble as we speak." She tried to ignore the strange ache that accompanied the thought, and dragged her thoughts back from where they'd wandered, across the Blues to wherever they'd set their course.  _You better be keeping him in line, Ben Beckman._

She should have realised her mistake when she made it, but it didn't register before a grin had broken out across Luffy's face, wide with rebellion and familiar mischief. "I wanna be a pirate one day!"

 _Oh, Garp-san._ But she couldn't quite hold back her own smile. "Don't go telling your grandpa that."

"Gramps doesn't scare me! I'm gonna be strong like Shanks, and fight him!"

"Who, the Captain? Or your grandpa?"

He seemed to ponder the thought. Then, grin flashing — "Both!"

Makino hummed. "Not as a marine, then?"

"Nu-uh. I wanna be a pirate. The best pirate _ever._ "

She laughed softly. "I look forward to seeing it," she said, smoothing out the blankets, before pinching his nose fondly.

His eyes fixed on hers then, and he'd be fast on his way to sleep soon, Makino knew, familiar with the distressingly quick transition between stages of wakefulness that seemed to run in Luffy's family. "Ma-chan?"

"Hmm?"

"D'you miss Shanks?"

She started slightly at the question, and fought to keep the blush from rising, feeling more than a little ridiculous that just the mention of his name was enough to prompt it. Then, hearing the innocent query for what it was and realising the boy wasn't likely to make a connection between the two, she curbed her efforts, and allowed a small smile to touch her lips. "A little. It's quiet without him around."

Luffy nodded, as though in agreement, and his next question was wrapped in a yawn, "Did you get his present?"

She blinked. "Present?"

"Mm. 'S a present for you...down...stairs..." The rest of the words dissolved in a snore, and then he was gone, mouth parted in earnest and all talk of pirates and marines abandoned for whatever adventures awaited him beyond the waking world.

Makino shook her head. "Get some sleep, Luffy. I'll bring you some food when you've had a nap." A kiss to his forehead, and she extracted herself, leaving the door ajar as she made for the stairs. But Luffy's words followed her down into the common room, along with a now-familiar surge of fond exasperation and reluctant curiosity, remembering the heavy coin-purse that still sat at the bottom of her desk drawer.  _What have you done this time, Captain?_

Garp was seated at the bar when she came downstairs. "Can I get you anything while you're here, Garp-san?"

"You're hiding something."

Makino didn't flinch, having known it was coming. Because although considered a tad dense at times, Garp was a startlingly perceptive man. At least when he wanted to be.

She steeled herself, allowing a neutral smile to sit on her lips, but knowing already from the way his brows lifted that she wasn't convincing anyone. "And what would I be hiding?"

His brows sank again, and he gave her a _look_ that made Makino tuck a cheeky remark behind her teeth — to say that it felt distinctly like an interrogation.

Then — "You've met someone," he told her.

How he could possibly have deduced that just from looking at her, Makino hadn't the faintest idea, but before she could ask Garp gave her the answer, along with a snort, "You have the same stupid look on your face that your old lady had thirty years ago."

Makino opened her mouth, ready to protest the notion, but closed it just as quickly, an idea presenting itself. Garp had a sharp intuition, so lying was out of the question. But leaving out a portion of the truth...

"Yes."

He blinked. _"Yes?_ You're admitting it?"

Shrugging, she allowed some of the nervous tension to bleed out of her shoulders with the gesture. "There's no use hiding it. You'd find out sooner or later, anyway." _Unless the Fates are kind._

"You're damn right I would," he grumbled, but seemed pleased by her answer. "So?" he asked then. "Who is it?"

She let her hum sit, a beat too long for it to be anything but teasing. "He's a man quite like any other." Well, that was a blatant lie, but she softened it by piling on a few words of truth, "He's kind. And funny." She rolled the words around on her tongue, before adding, "Maybe not as boring as you would have liked, but I hope you can make some concessions."

His expression toed the line between reluctant acquiescence and lingering suspicion. "It's not an adventurer, is it?"

She made sure her smile didn't look _too_ innocent. "No." And that wasn't exactly a lie. He was a pirate, first and foremost. "I think that would require too much effort. He prefers a quiet way of life."

"Old?"

She opened her mouth, then shut it. And — she hadn't actually asked him about that.  _Was_ that something she should have asked him? How old was he, exactly? Suzume had suggested he might be past thirty, and suddenly, faced with what might well be a ten-year age gap, Makino felt all her earlier ease rush out of her in something akin to horror. Did he even have a clue as to how old — or rather how _young_  — she was?

Garp had to have picked up on her prolonged silence, and so, "A few years older," Makino said, clearing her throat, and hoped the laughably vague answer didn't convey every single thought sitting behind it now, spurred by a little voice reminding her cheerfully that, aside from a few, painfully obvious things (pirate, captain, swordsman, left-handed, quick to laugh, chatty drunk), she knew next to nothing about Shanks. If that was even his real name. And all at once the 'Captain' joke didn't seem as funny as it had.

She viciously silenced the voice before the doubt had had time to take root.  _It doesn't matter._ None of that mattered, at least not right now. She'd ask him when he returned. No big deal.

Garp was watching her, but if he had any thoughts about her answer, long in coming as it had been, he didn't share them. Instead, "Name?" he asked.

Makino's eyes narrowed. "You're going to check for criminal records, aren't you?"

Unsurprisingly, he didn't look the least bit ashamed. "What kind of marine do you take me for? Of course I am."

"Well in that case, I'm not telling you."

"Oh? Afraid I might be onto something?"

"No." She lifted her chin. "But if he does have a criminal record, then he's a very _nice_ criminal."

Garp snorted. "How reassuring." But he accepted the glass Makino handed him with a nod of thanks, and moment of silence followed wherein he emptied the contents, and Makino considered her next move.

She couldn't let anything slip that would somehow tip him off. For all she knew, Shanks could have quite the criminal record, and a bounty to match. In fact, Garp might be well aware of who he was, so she had to be careful in her descriptions. Vague was the way to go about it, and he wouldn't question her further if she gave a satisfying answer.

"I hope you understand why I'm asking you these things," Garp said then, putting down his glass.

Makino refilled it, taking a moment to consider the tumbler before pushing it across the counter. "And I appreciate your concern, Garp-san, but I'm more than old enough to decide what's best for me."

"Yeah, so said your old lady, and look where she ended up."

Something in her bristled at the casual mention, and she felt the remnants of the strange dream plucking at the edge of her memory — a product of her own mind's machinations, _maybe,_ but for some reason she couldn't seem to shake the thought that there was a certain truth to it.

"I don't think she had regrets," she said, and watched as Garp's eyes lifted from the glass in his hands. Suddenly emboldened, she forged on, "And I don't think she would have changed anything, either, if she could."

Garp's scrutiny had no name, and his expression was suddenly, startlingly unreadable. Then, a great sigh shook loose of him, hard features softening into something Makino recognised as resignation. "Damn stubborn thing. Always claimed she knew best."

A hundred questions that needed answers, hoarded throughout the course of a curious childhood, but she nudged the tide away with gentle insistence, and the one that remained was asked, not with breathless curiosity but a small, almost desperate hope—

"Was he good to her?"

Garp didn't flinch at the question, but there was a long pause before he spoke. "Overlooking the fact that he up and left her," he said, "Then yeah, I think he was."

She wore her surprise in plain sight. "I thought you said he was a pirate."

Garp snorted. "Yeah, a _bad_ one. And I said good _to_ her, not for her." He grumbled, "Still. Some satisfaction in that, at least. Damn crook barely had a berri to his name."

"That's a good thing?"

He gave her a look. "A good thing for _me._ I'd hate to see his ugly mug on a wanted poster whenever there's a section meeting at Headquarters." He shook his head. "I've got enough of that already. Cheeky brats making a mess of the sea."

Oh, she was tempted to ask — to pry, gentle fingers tugging until he let slip the information, if there was a smiling, scarred face on one of those wanted posters, but she stopped herself. And the sudden need to bring his name up in conversation was entirely ridiculous — not to mention dangerous, at least where the man sitting across from her was concerned.

"Had to have done something right, though," Garp said then, seeming to caught up in his own thoughts to notice where Makino's had wandered. "Em didn't give a single bastard the time of day before he came along."

 _Not even you?_ But she didn't ask that, either. "Do you remember his name?"

Garp scratched the back of his head. "Er, Jirou...something. I remember what he looked like. Horse-face, and curly hair. Really curly hair. A moustache, maybe." He shook his head. "I'd know his mug if I met him again. Can't say I understood what she saw in him, though. Was a damn ugly bastard."

Makino pressed her lips together to stifle her smile. Leave it to Garp to forget the name of a man he treated with the disdain of an arch-nemesis. "Looks aren't everything, Garp-san."

He cut her a look. "Your man an ugly bastard, too?"

She didn't know exactly what prompted the blush — the all-too-casual mention of _your man_ , making something warm and pleased curl up behind her heart, or the image of Shanks' grinning face flashing before her eyes.

Seeming entirely despite himself, Garp's mouth lifted in a smirk. "Face says it all," he snorted. "But then your face says more than most."

She didn't bother trying to school her blush into submission, allowing it instead to sit, a small act of rebellion. "I happen to find him handsome, yes." A staggering understatement, but she wasn't about to tell the closet thing she'd ever had to a father _that._

Thankfully, Garp didn't seem inclined to ask for details. "I'd believe you, but I know what love does. Muddles your eyesight. Your old girl said the same thing in her time, and I'm pretty sure the only other person who'd love a face like his was his own mother. Maybe not even that."

She shook her head. "Have you considered that you might be a bit biased?"

The look he gave her told Makino plainly what he thought about that, even before he said, "Biased my ass. A blind man could've said the same. Now that I think about it, damn pirate couldn't dress, either."

She cut a subtle glance towards his shirt, a cheerful atrocity of yellow and purple flowers. Garp's idea of civilian wear packed a retina-punch with about the same strength as a bare-knuckled fist. "Are you really in a position to be commenting on other people's dress sense, Garp-san?"

"What was that?"

"Nothing. Refill?"

There was little in way of conversation between them after that, and with her thoughts several seas away, Makino found her mind circling back to what Luffy had told her.

Maybe Shanks had been pulling his leg. She couldn't spot anything out of the ordinary...

Gaze coming to rest on her bookcase at the back of the room, Makino paused.  _Wait a minute._

Discarding the dish-rag, she moved around the counter, feet taking her across the common room towards the bookcase. Put in after her Mistress' passing, the intention had been to make the bar feel a little bit more like her own, but no one ever made use of it. Well — other than Makino herself, anyway.

The familiar assortment of leather-bound novels and paperbacks greeted her as she neared it, stacked neatly against the wall. On each shelf, the books were sorted in order of size and height, which was why she noticed the one that stood out — and rather noticeably at that.

 _This is new._ Frown in place, she tugged out a thick, leather-bound piece from where it had been sitting amidst a row of books half its size, as though someone had left it there with the explicit purpose of making her notice.

The thought sent a spark of realisation leaping up her spine, and her pleasure escaped in a soft, breathless laugh. _Really now, Captain?_

Curiosity cresting like a small wave, she flipped the cover of the book open. Judging by its appearance, it was old — used, yet obviously cared for by its previous owner. And the first page lured a small gasp, finding the illustration looking back at her; a heavily detailed rendition of waves thrown against the straining hull of a ship, sharp blue ink and gold leafing seamlessly woven together. It looked less like a book than a piece of art, and she hesitated a full second before touching a tender fingertip to the corner of the page.

Entranced, she flipped the first page, extreme care sitting in the movement, before she started, a slip of paper sliding out from within its confinement, but she caught it before it could fall to the floor.

Turning it over in her hand, it looked to have been carelessly torn off something bigger, the thin paper crumpled but roughly straightened by being pressed between the covers of the book in her hands. On it, only two words were written, scribbled on the white surface in a barely legible chicken-scratch, but she recognised them as easily as she would his voice, the echo of which accompanied the realisation—

 

_An adventure._

 

The smile prompted by the realisation — their first conversation, and he'd remembered _that —_ threatened to split her face in two, and she suppressed the small shriek of delight threatening at the bottom of her throat. And all at once it ceased to matter that she had no idea how old he was, or when he was coming back, because no one had ever done something like this for her — had given her something _just because_ , prompted by no other reason than the knowledge that she liked to read.

No one had ever cared about that part of her, at least not beyond it being something of an odd quirk, and for a moment the utter unfamiliarity of the gesture manifested in a surge of feeling that left her a little breathless.

Tucking the book to her chest, against which she could feel her heart racing to meet it, Makino spun around—

—only to find Garp standing here, head tilted slightly and hands tucked into the pockets of his pants.

"Garp-san!"

Keen eyes fell from hers, dropping to the book pressed against her chest, before lifting back up. "Everything okay?"

A blush climbing up her throat, she tried not to think about the fact that she was probably wearing each and every one of her thoughts on her face. And, "I'm fine," she laughed, the words escaping in a rush. "I just— I just  _love_ books.So much. And someone left one. In the bookcase. For me." She tried to soften her smile into something that wasn't so deliriously _goofy._  

Garp only raised a brow. "Someone, huh?" He snorted. "I see Em didn't teach you to lie — you'd have her rolling in her grave if that was the case. Luffy would have trouble believing you with that look on your face."

Makino looked at her feet, blush deepening, and pointedly refused to correct him.

"So," Garp said then, the lone syllable carrying a whole number of things with it. "I take it this 'someone' is the same someone whose name you're refusing to give me."

When all Makino gave him in answer was the smile that refused to yield, he sighed. "Giving you books, huh? Knows you well, then?"

If her nod seemed a bit too enthusiastic, he was kind enough not to point it out. "It looks old — a first edition, maybe. And it's illustrated, too."

Garp eyed the book with mounting amusement. "Can't say I know much about books, but going by the ones I've caught you reading, the lack of shirtless guys probably means it's a bit fancier than what you're used to."

Makino ignored the blush darkening her cheeks, and of course he'd be so painfully blunt about it. "It— yes. That's...one way of putting it."

His eyes still on the book, "Looks expensive," he mused. "Mah, you being you, it's probably equal to a piece of jewellery."

Makino smiled, and tried very hard not to latch onto the 'expensive' part of that comment, or to let slip that it had hit a nerve.  _Captain, please tell me I'm not holding a priceless piece of loot._

Well. In his defence, he _was_ a pirate. And it wasn't like it was gold or gemstones. It was a book. An adventure.

And in her eyes, at least, worth more than any pile of treasure.

 

—

 

She was dead on her feet when her last customer saw fit to leave Party's that night, later than usual even for her regulars, but it was nearing the annual winter festival — one of their few, the rare occasion having left the village in a particularly celebratory mood. It meant more business for Makino, but at the same time, more work.

Stifling a yawn, the chair felt suddenly heavy in her hands as she placed it on the table, and the tired sweep of her eyes across the still-to-be-mopped floors had a groan lurking at the back of her throat. The weather had been particularly mild, leaving the packed earth soggy from the melted frost, and most of which seemed to have been dragged inside her bar. It would take her well over an hour to clean the whole room. At the very least.

The sudden urge to just lie down on the dirty floor and go to sleep was enough that she actually gave it a second's worth of consideration, before chucking the impulse and her duties in one fell swoop, making for the stairs instead. There was no use working on the verge of passing out — she'd do it in the morning, and pray the rest of the village would be sleeping off their drink long into the afternoon.

The idea sounded better and better as she made her way up the stairs, the creaking floorboards beneath her feet a soothing lullaby promising the soft mattress of her bed, and _rest,_ which felt so far out of her reach the landing seemed suddenly a viable option, if she couldn't be bothered to make the last few steps to her bedroom.

But all her thoughts of sleep fled at the sight of the book sitting atop the covers of her bed, taking her fatigue with it. And suddenly she had no mind for floors in need of cleaning, or even basic human needs, all of it forgotten in favour of the promise looking up at her. Her present, with its gilded pages and supple leather cover.

 _One,_ she decided, with a nod. She'd read one chapter, and then sleep.

Of course, that decision was promptly tossed overboard, two pages in and already stolen; whisked away by a crew of pirates to some great and terrible sea beyond the edge of the world — a stowaway on a voyage that had her breath hitching with every page. The heroine, quick-witted and funny—

' _What is it that you're looking for, Captain?'_

_A paradox of steady sea-legs and wild, untamed bluster, the answer he got was just as unpredictable,_ _'Didn't I tell you? The greatest treasure!'_

_'Yes, so you've said, but what exactly is the greatest treasure? And where will you find it?'_

_Their captain grinned. 'I'll_ _know it when I see it, Skipper. And as to how we'll find it...' She turned towards the dawn-bright horizon, painted with early morning colours of rose and pearl. No one had ever sailed beyond it._

' _That's what this adventure is all about, isn't it?'_

A hundred pages in saw her sprawled across the mattress, book forgotten and dreams full of vast, terrible waters, and a pirate captain who liked to lean over the side of the railing, to greet the storm in person. And maybe the captain had more than one face — one moment feminine and fiercely beautiful, the next a familiar canvas of sharp angles, and scars softened by an infectious smile.

She woke past noon, a kink in her neck and the book a heavy weight across her chest, and nearly fell out of bed in surprise at the bright sunlight filling her bedroom. But even with her rising anxiety that she'd neglected her duties, the anticipation that twitched in her fingers as she tucked the book beneath her pillow made her smile sit, as light and giddy as her heart in her chest.

She forgot to change her clothes, and to eat breakfast. And it wasn't until she was in the middle of mopping the common room that realisation finally struck.

An adventure. A distraction to lose herself in when things got too quiet — no melons or windmills for miles, but salt and sea-spray; the ocean an open heart on all sides, beating with the thrilling promise of uncharted waters. A little piece of his world for her to keep.

Her smile curved, a softer thing now but her mind already lost with the first sweep of the mop, and the  _slosh_ of the wash-water like waves crashing across the floorboards—

_—thank you, Captain._

 


	8. perilous the journey, tread lightly

Three whole months spanned the length of their absence, from their departure to the day the Red-Hair Pirates once again dropped anchor in Fuschia.

Their presence now a widely accepted fact — at least for the most part; there was still some resistance, but minor in nature and manifesting mostly in under-the-breath grumbles about _pirates_ and _bad influences_  — most people had come to anticipate their arrival, which didn't cause quite the same uproar as it had the first two times. And as they'd yet to commit any heinous acts, at least other than over-paying the local tavern-owner, most had come to the conclusion that whatever raid or massacre they'd been expecting probably wasn't going to happen.

Of course, there was also the fact that the combined, relentless charm of Shanks' entire crew was a force to be reckoned with. And Fuschia hadn't put up much of a fight.

The thought made her smile now, considering it as she picked her way up the steep slope, leaving the excited village chatter behind her in favour of what awaited her beyond the rise. She hadn't been present at the wharf earlier to greet their arrival, like Luffy and some of the more curious villagers. Instead she'd bid her time at the tavern, busying herself with getting things ready, if only to distract herself from what she'd really wanted to do, which was sprint down to the docks to throw herself at a certain someone.

But she didn't need the village rumour-mill churning any more than it already did. Honestly, it was nothing short of a miracle Garp hadn't caught whiff of things during his last visit. And really, Makino's reputation and sense of common propriety aside, Shanks didn't need more evidence of her age, of which such an action would no doubt be a blatant, screaming testimony.

Still. There was something undeniably thrilling about the thought — running into someone's waiting arms, and trusting them to catch you.

The top of the hill within reach, nervous anticipation left her suddenly breathless, but with her skirt gripped between shaking fingers Makino ran the remaining distance, the dirt yielding, soft underfoot. Winter was slowly relenting its grip on the island, and the snow had all but melted away. The cold sun now warmed her back, and the very first of the most stubborn spring flowers were creeping out from under the hard earth.

The whole of her felt light, heart and breath weighing nothing, and by the time she reached the top of the rise her cheeks were flushed from the exercise and the lingering chill. And coming to a stop, she didn't have to search long, a single sweep of her eyes enough to find him — the red of his hair before anything else.

Relief and something else greeted her at the sight of him, the first easier to make sense of than the latter. She'd hoped she wouldn't have to come down to the ship to see him - the prospect of facing the crew after her embarrassing display on the docks three months ago hadn't exactly filled her with eagerness, remembering keenly the coins that had changed hands. Although - there was also the memory of their farewells, entirely earnest, and no teasing in sight.

Oh, well. She would have to face them all at some point, but for now she'd take heart from the fact that she didn't have to greet him in front of an audience.

And there was also the fact that he'd sought her out first, and it silenced the little voice in her head that had grown progressively louder over the course of the past few weeks, wondering if he might have changed his mind about coming back.

He turned at her approach, no doubt having heard her coming long before she'd begun ascending the slope, and the smile that curved along his mouth brought back that nameless feeling from earlier, drowning out her relief and her nervousness both, leaving something warm and and encouraging, and-

"Enjoying the view?" Makino surprised herself by asking, an entirely ridiculous sort of smile curving around the words, giving them a teasing tinge that managed to both sound like her, and someone else entirely.

Exactly what he made of the sound of it, Shanks didn't let on, but the too-clever gleam in his eyes let her know what was coming even before he said, "I do love a good view. Although I believe it just got better."

It was obvious that three months had done little to dampen the infatuation he'd left her with, and she'd expected the blush, although maybe not for it to be quite so brilliant, feeling suddenly warm all the way down her neck and collar. And she watched his grin widen in response, a thing of shameless delight, but was surprised to find no shred of the self-satisfied surety you'd expect from someone like him. Instead he seemed genuinely pleased to have prompted such a reaction.

Or maybe it wasn't so surprising. Insufferably charming or not, he always seemed to derive genuine pleasure from making people smile; a victory in the reaction, rather than what had been done to prompt it.

The whole, undiluted focus of his attention on her was making it difficult to keep her own smile contained, but, "Flattery, now?" she asked, and with far more ease than she'd thought herself capable. "Trying to see if I'm as susceptible as you?"

Shanks only cocked his head. "Maybe. Is it working?"

She pursed her mouth. "Make a bigger effort, and I'll get back to you."

His grin brightened, and her heart did a small jump in her chest. "So hard to please," he laughed, sounding entirely happy about it. "Good. I like a challenge."

She couldn't have held back her smile now if she'd wanted to, Makino knew. And she didn't know where those three months had gone — when she tried to look for them she found nothing, only that small, soft marvel that he could come back into her life like he'd never left it, and they'd talk like they'd known each other for years when the total number of days they'd spent together could be counted on one hand. They were practically strangers, at least according to most people's definition of the word.

And yet she couldn't escape it, the fact that she'd never felt a connection like this to another person. And maybe she'd never made much of a point of seeking those kind of connections, preferring the people in her books to those in her own village, although that shouldn't have made a difference — a sheltered, quiet life with a sheltered, quiet heart hadn't exactly left her susceptible to accept someone like him, waltzing in and making room for himself, quite without asking.

But looking at him now, Makino found perhaps for the first time in her life of dreaming herself beyond the parameters of her own existence, an acute realisation that she didn't want to be anywhere else.

"So, did you like it?"

The question drew her back, finding Shanks watching her, still with that entirely pleased smile on his face, although there was something else in it now, Makino saw, but couldn't place it.

And it took a moment for it to dawn on her just what it was he was asking, but then she was returning the smile, although with far less grace. But she couldn't help it — she'd loved the book, and from the look on his face, he'd already suspected she would. "Quite the adventure."

Shanks' hum was thoughtful, and his expression yielded nothing of what he made of the deliberately vague remark. "If I remember, it was pretty popular when I was a kid."

She couldn't help herself. "Long time ago, then?"

His neutral expression let slip a small smirk. "Clever girl. But a gentleman never reveals his age."

"I thought that only counted for ladies."

 _"Details,"_   he laughed, but there was a keen gleam in his eyes now. "Why the sudden interest in my age, hmm?"

Makino tried to covertly drop her gaze from his. She doubted it was successful. "No reason," she fibbed, smoothing her hands down her skirt.

A moment of silence passed, and she didn't think he was going to respond — or if he was, that it was going to be with another joke, but, "Twenty-seven," Shanks said, making her eyes shoot back to his. Then, a wry grin pulling at his mouth, no doubt at the surprise on her face, "What?" he asked. "Is this the moment you break my heart by announcing that you only go for younger men?"

Her surprise relented, leaving room for a smile. "No, it's— I mean, I could ask you the same thing."

"Yeah? You'll be pleased to hear that I don't go for younger men either, then."

She spluttered, "That— you know what I meant!"

"Afraid I don't. You might have to spell it out for me."

"You're enjoying this."

"Oh, entirely too much."

She huffed. "I'm nearly a decade younger than you — you do realise that?"

The look he gave her would have put Ben's best to shame, Makino thought. "This might come as a shock, given that you've already questioned my ability to pay my bills correctly, but I do know how numbers work." But before she could comment on that, "You're twenty, then?" he asked.

She tired not to fiddle with her skirt. "Yeah." And she didn't know what she'd get out of asking, but, "Were you— er, did you think I was older?"

To her surprise, Shanks only smiled. "Seeing as you own a bar, I figured you'd have to be at least past the legal drinking age. Seemed only logical." Something serious flickered across his expression then. "I wouldn't have kissed you if I'd harboured any doubts about that. I hope that was never in question?"

She hadn't even thought about that. "I— no, it wasn't." She blinked, considering it now. But the fact that he'd given it thought made her strangely pleased to hear. It wasn't that he'd assumed she was older and was just now faced with the uncomfortable truth; he'd already considered that she might be a good deal younger.

Shanks tilted his head then, brow furrowing slightly. "Is the age thing a problem?"

She hesitated. "No." Then, "Yes. I mean— n-not for me. Or, I don't...know."

His look softened perceptibly, but a small smile teased the corner of his mouth upwards. "So articulate," he mused. "I'll be swept off my feet at this rate."

She resisted the sudden urge to pinch him. "I'm serious."

"So am I," he countered, not teasing now. "If this is a problem—"

"It's not," Makino said, cutting him off. "I'm just—" She looked at him, still watching her with that expression that seemed to manage to be at once fond and serious at the same time. He wasn't taking it lightly — or her, and he'd already told her he wouldn't, hadn't he?

She sighed, shoulders sinking a bit, and she resisted the urge to avert her eyes. "I'm just being an idiot. Please ignore me, and the things that see fit to come out of my mouth."

She didn't know what she'd expected his reaction to be, but whatever it was, it wasn't what she got. "See now, you're asking the impossible," Shanks said. "And I should know — I've spent three months trying not to think about it. It's been trying on us all. Just ask Ben — he's the one who's kept the ship afloat, my thoughts being otherwise occupied." His eyes curved, that now-familiar, clever gleam in them. "And by that I mean I've been thinking about you. If that wasn't clear."

She blushed, and his grin widened. "Was that the kind of effort you were hoping for? If not, give me a moment and I'll think of something. Shouldn't be hard." She wondered if his grin could get any bigger. "Looking at you, it's an effort not finding something flattering to say."

Makino expelled a laughing breath. "You're incorrigible. Has anyone ever told you?"

"At least once a day, by my count," he offered back breezily. "A few more, if Ben is on a roll."

"I hope you don't subject him to this," Makino said.

"No," he countered. "But then if he looked like _you,_  that would be a different matter." Her blush deepened, and Shanks laughed, delighted. "Feel free to stop me anytime."

Her smile betrayed her, Makino knew, but, "Please stop."

He feigned a pout. "And here I thought girls loved to be praised."

"In the olden days, maybe," Makino said. Then, before she could stop herself, "But I guess you can't be blamed, being a relic of that time."

The laugh that tore from him did strange things to her stomach. "Ouch! God," Shanks laughed, shaking his head. "You wound this old man, Makino." Then under his breath, softly marvelling, _"Relic."_

He was still grinning, and she couldn't name the look he gave her — the wonderment that she couldn't quite guess the reason for. But then, his expression softening into something more serious, "Does it really bother you, though?" he asked. "And be honest, now. You're not a very good liar."

She wondered if she should be annoyed to discover that she was apparently so painfully easy to read, but she wasn't really surprised. She'd already gathered that he was uncannily good at reading people. And she knew there was no point in trying to skirt the issue — not when he was looking at her like that, anyway.

"You've seen so much of the world," she said at length. And it was an effort not dropping her eyes now. "I've never even been off the docks." She plucked at her skirt, craving a distraction under the hold of his eyes, and her earlier ease gave way to a slight stutter as she scrambled to put words to what she was feeling, "You've— well, you've _lived._ Age isn't the problem, it's—"

She stopped before she could say _experience,_ feeling suddenly that there was much more behind that word than just how many seas he'd seen. And she couldn't stop the heat pushing up under her skin; could only hope that he didn't read more into it than self-consciousness for living a land-bound life.

She wrung her hands with a short, dry laugh. "I guess I just feel like a child, compared to you."

He arched a brow at that, although his expression was one of understanding. "You should say that to Ben. Or don't, now that I think about it. The irony might actually kill him."

Makino shook her head. "Just— forget I ever said anything. It doesn't matter."

The tilt of his head was entirely too perceptive. "Funny, because I think it does. If it didn't, you wouldn't have brought it up."

She cut him a look, hands stilling in their nervous fiddling. "You're not going to let this go, are you?"

"Not until I'm sure it doesn't bother you."

Now it was her turn to raise a brow. "And how do you plan on achieving that? It's not like I can just cover seven years of seafaring in—"

He'd reached for her before she could finish, calloused fingers tracing a path along her jawline, around the curve of her ear, and her breath caught in her throat along with her heart.

Shanks smiled, seeming to take a moment just to look at her, and Makino wondered briefly if releasing the breath she'd been holding would ruin the moment, or if she should just keep holding it.

"A sight for sore eyes," he murmured, and her heart slammed against her ribcage so violently she thought he must have heard it. Him, and the whole village to boot.

She didn't know what gave her the courage, their parting at the docks still embarrassingly fresh in mind, but the way he was looking at her made her bold — drew her across the single breath of distance that still sat between them. Not a bold gesture by any means, but she saw as realisation alighted in his eyes, and when she tilted her head, tentatively asking, he dipped his own to meet her, nothing tentative in his answer.

There was no misjudged distance this time — no teeth clashing or noses bumping, only a simple kiss, and one she'd imagined more than was probably entirely healthy. But her imagination hadn't done him justice — hadn't remembered that natural warmth he seemed to exude, or how deliberate his touches felt, the cup of his hand around the back of her head inviting her to sink against him.

And he always seemed to know where to put his hands, while all she could manage was to press her palms hesitantly against his chest, his skin a shock of warmth that she couldn't decide if made her want to slip her fingers under his shirt or pull her hands back entirely. She'd never touched anyone like this, and the thought that followed — what it would be like to touch him, all of him, had something dropping below her stomach that left her feeling dizzier than the kiss.

She felt his smile before he drew back, stretching along her mouth, the slight scratch of his beard as he asked, "And?" When he looked at her, his eyes glittered, and it took her a moment to blink past the daze. "Did I convince you?"

She couldn't help the laugh. Her fingers curled, worrying the fabric of his open shirt. "Was that what you were doing?"

"Well. Trying," Shanks said. She felt the touch of his fingers against her cheek, his thumb running across the curve of her cheekbone. "So I guess it's going to take more than a kiss to cover those seven years, huh?"

She felt lightheaded with the way he was watching her, and how close he was standing; the warmth of his skin under her fingertips, and the still-lingering kiss. And there was a moment where she wondered what she'd been so worried about. And right there was another marvel, Makino thought — the way he had of making her forgot her worries, seemingly without conscious effort. Her earlier nervousness was nowhere to be found, and looking at him now she felt sure that, if anything, it wasn't _child_ that came to mind when he looked at her.

The thought brought on that strange courage — the one that didn't just make her feel bold, but like she could be; like it wouldn't be an ill-fit if she tried, as she'd always used to think.

And so, "Maybe one more?" she asked, and watched his grin widen.

"Think that might do the trick?"

She averted her eyes. "Maybe." She gave a small shrug. "You're a good kisser."

"Oh yeah?"

"Hmm. For an old man, anyway."

She was certain they could hear his laughter all the way across the island, but couldn't even find it in herself to mind who did, or what they made of it. Because it was the loveliest sound she'd heard in three months, and she'd endure all the gossip they could manage between themselves if it meant that she could have this — could have him now that he was back. And at least for a moment, Makino didn't think about how long he'd be staying, or when he'd be leaving again; she'd already spent three months _thinking._

And so she kissed him instead.

 

—

 

"So how have things been here while we've been away?"

The question was asked at the heels of a comfortable lull, sitting with their backs to the tree as they watched the afternoon sun make its slow descent across the sky. An unspoken agreement to steal a few moments to themselves, with her bar likely already full of pirates, helping themselves to her larder and cellar both. It was a considerable transition from that first day where she'd been reluctant to leave the room for five minutes, but she found nothing to worry about now when she thought about it — aside from whatever outrageous sum they might decide to leave as payment this time.

Makino inclined her head, smile small but wry. "I'm curious to know if you're expecting anything but 'bland' and 'quiet' in answer to that question," she said.

Shanks grinned. "You tell me. A lot can happen in three months."

"Like?"

"More pirates?"

She hummed, and considered the sea. "We've had exactly one ship, and it was carrying fish, not loot. And they'd miscalculated their course — they wanted the port on the other side of the island."

"Their loss, obviously."

She met his eyes, her smile soft. "Obviously."

"Guess we picked a good time to come back, then," Shanks said. "This place could use a party."

Makino fiddled with a loose thread in her shawl, and tried to steer her thoughts away from the path they wanted to venture down. She'd been waiting for him to bring it up — the subject of their return, which for three months had kept her mind churning with questions, despite the fact that their parting had left it heavily implied. But even if he had come back, that only answered some of her questions; it did little to chip away at the greater bulk of uncertainty she'd been nursing for the past few weeks.

And there were probably any number of skillful ways of approaching a conversation like this, but knowing she'd no doubt make a mess of things if she tried her hand at either one of them, Makino tried for something a little safer.

"I fixed your cloak," she said, when a beat of silence had passed and Shanks hadn't spoken. "There was a tear. I hope you don't mind."

He didn't respond, and when she turned her head to look at him there was a thoughtful look on his face, as though he was trying to decipher what sat behind the words.

"What?" she asked, when he didn't seem inclined to share his thoughts. She forced her hands to lay still in her lap.

She could almost feel the frown as it pulled on his brows, tugging at the scars. "Something is still bothering you." Then, tilting his head, his expression still contemplative, "I'd suggest kissing you again, but I have a feeling this runs a little deeper than the age thing."

She was proud of herself when she didn't blush at the casual suggestion this time, but that might have something to do with the thoughts that wouldn't leave her, now that they'd properly latched on to the subject she'd been trying to avoid thinking about.

Picking at the loose threat, the words felt like they had to be dragged out. "It's just— Fuschia is— it's requires such a long detour, no matter where you're coming from or going. So—" she stopped, mouth pressed together as she searched within her for the crux of the issue — the thing she couldn't quite wrap her head around.

"I guess I don't fully understand why you keep coming back," she said then, and surprised herself by lifting her gaze to look at him, although she was quick to drop it again. "And don't say it's because of the cloak, I know that was just something to stop me from completely losing my head. But I'm doing it anyway, because apparently, that's what I do. I overthink things, and you'd think that would give me some peace, right? But it doesn't; all it does is make the whole thing make less sense, and—"

She looked at him again. "I just— I don't— I honestly don't understand _you._ "

Shanks' expression hadn't so much as budged, and Makino didn't know if she was relieved that he wasn't trying to hold back his laughter, or irritated that he seemed so perfectly at ease when she couldn't even think straight around him.

She pushed her fingers against her brow. "I used to know how to form a proper sentence," she sighed. "You'd think reading all those books would have been useful for something."

When he still hadn't said anything, Makino looked at him, irritation finally overtaking the relief now, and pushing the words off her tongue before she could think about how they sounded, "Some input would be nice, you know. Anything, really. You don't need to hold back your laughter if that's what you're doing."

That made him smile. "You should know by now that I'm physically incapable of holding back my laughter. You don't know how much trouble that usually gets me into."

When she didn't smile, his look softened. "You're wondering why I'm here," he said then. "Other than to fetch my newly mended cloak." He tilted his head. "I thought I was being pretty obvious. I'm not exactly known for being subtle."

She swallowed thickly. "So, it's—"

"You? Pretty much."

Her cheeks coloured, and she heard him laugh, a terribly soft sound. "I can't believe you're actually surprised by this. And Ben calls _me_ dense."

"I'm not— I _knew_ that, I just—"

"Just..?"

She allowed her head to drop back against the trunk. "I don't understand why."

"With all the novels you've read, I would have thought you'd be quicker on the uptake. Isn't this how it usually goes? Roguishly handsome love interest sweeps into the heroine's life, all charm and undeniable good looks—"

"This book sounds like it's more about the love interest than the heroine," Makino pointed out.

Shanks grinned. "Okay, then. Roguishly handsome _hero_ finds his life turned on its head by what is quite easily the loveliest girl he's ever met— and who apparently can't resist his charm, at least going by the fact that she can't stop blushing. Does that sound about right?"

Makino stubbornly kept her eyes on the skyline, although it did little to distract from the all-too telling heat in her cheeks. She wondered if she'd ever get used to how free he was with his words. "Sounds about right. For a novel." The words _romantic drivel_ sat, perched at the back of her tongue, but she couldn't make herself speak them. She'd never thought that, but there was a whole world of difference between idolising stories in books, and expecting them to come true in real life. She told Shanks as much.

"So we're in a novel, then?" he mused. "Fictional characters— creations of an over-imaginative mind somewhere, acting only on someone's whim, and living lives that have already been decided for us?" He raised his brows. "Scary thoughts, Makino. Enough to deprive a man of his sleep."

"Is relentless teasing your default mode or something?"

"Guilty as charged. But then you make it so _easy."_

She shot him a look that told him just how amusing she found it, and he allowed a smile to soften his humour. "C'mon. Why is it so hard for you to believe?"

"That someone like you would be even remotely interested in someone like me?" she asked.

"Someone like me, huh?" He looked infinitely pleased with how she'd phrased that. "Sounds ominous."

She sighed. "Handsome pirate captains don't come visiting silly barmaids in backwater ports."

"Oh _handsome,_ is it? See, I always knew it. I don't care what Yasopp says, he's just jeal— why are you looking at me like that?"

She'd crossed her arms over her chest. "You're not taking this seriously."

He gave her a look. "I hardly ever take anything seriously. Except maybe drinking contests."

"It's like talking to a tree."

 _"Wow._ Okay, but Ben said the exact same thing last week, although I think he used 'mast' instead of the wood from whence it came. Is he teaching you these things?"

Makino said nothing, and it was a laden quiet that pooled between them now. Not uncomfortable, but there were a hundred things sitting in it, and for a single moment it was almost too much to bear, all the things left unsaid between them. The things he might never speak of, but that she so desperately wanted answers to.

To her surprise, Shanks was the one who broke the silence.

"I can't help it."

When she turned her head to look at him, there was a strange smile on his face. "You have trouble understanding my reasons for coming back, but I don't know how to explain it to make it easier to understand. I can't stop thinking about you," and she ducked her head before she could catch the smile that followed that statement, "and I wasn't kidding when I said it's been a trying three months. I'm pretty sure Ben is on the verge of plotting a mutiny just to get some rest."

He shrugged then. "And there's something about this place," he said, lifting his eyes to the branches stretching above their heads. The low-hanging sun filtered through the slips of space between the leaves, spilling gold across his hair. "Like I have unfinished business here. I can't explain it."

He sought her eyes. "I don't gamble with fate, but I'm not beyond believing it has a hand in certain things. And I don't know if it's you or something else, but...I wouldn't mind," he said then, grin flashing, suddenly sheepish, "if it _was_ you." His smile turned curiously soft. "You intrigue me, as you are, and I believe I've said this before, quite unlike anyone I've ever met."

Makino held his gaze for a whole beat before relenting, and Shanks laughed. "And there you go, turning your head away. That was a compliment, you know."

She didn't bother trying to stifle her smile, but couldn't quite seem to make herself lift her eyes. "You're very free with those."

"Only when I mean them," Shanks offered back. Then, his voice holding a smile, "And like I said, it's not hard where you're concerned." When she ducked her head further, she heard him laugh. "Impossible, aren't you?" He shook his head. "I'd have an easier time getting Ben to acknowledge my superior intellect."

Her smile pursed. "Sounds like a feat."

"Like you wouldn't believe. Then again, Ben is pretty smart. One of his more redeeming qualities." When she said nothing to that, Shanks asked, "Isn't this where you're supposed to say 'I didn't think you knew what redeeming qualities were, Captain, having none to speak of'?"

She looked at him. "Did you just slight yourself to give me an opening?"

Shanks raised his brows. "I'm very self-sacrificial if I want to be. For the right reasons, at least." Something eased across his face then, and she thought he might reach for her, but all he said was, "And for you I'd be a whole lot of things, if it would remove that thoughtful little frown between your eyes."

Now he did reach out, touching a fingertip between her brows, and she blinked, allowing her frown to smooth into surprise. His smile lifted in turn, before he traced his finger down the bridge of her nose, his voice a murmur when he spoke, "There you go."

The sigh that left her held a laugh. "You make it sound so easy."

Bemusement turned his smile curious. "What?"

She shook her head. "Just— the things you say. About me. About—" She paused, and with a breath, "The only time someone like me actually intrigues someone like you is in a story. The kind of story that's usually written by someone like me, to compensate for the lack of— of someone like...you."  _Gods above, Makino, stop talking._ "What I'm trying to say is that I'm a _barmaid,_ and—" _Stop. Stop it, for the love of—_ "I feel like you need some ulterior motive," she blurted. "Or something."

When she finally turned her head back to look at him, she was greeted with an expression of unabashed amusement. "Been carrying that one around for a while, huh?"

Makino sighed. "Why am I even trying?"

Shanks breathed a laugh. "Look at me." Then, _"Makino."_

The sound of her name on his tongue, spoken with that gentle insistence bordering on a quiet command, had a shiver shooting up her spine, and it took an extraordinary amount of effort to meet his gaze without looking away.

"First of all," Shanks said, "a profession does not a person make. At least not entirely. If that was the case and all pirates were the same, you should be the one running. And secondly," and now something undeniably fond entered his voice, tinged with exasperation, "I don't think you give yourself enough credit."

A grin touched his mouth when she shyly averted her eyes, but that didn't stop him. In fact, Makino wondered if it didn't spur him on, a spark of stubborn intent behind his words now when he said, "You're a closet adventurer, and yet you've never given an indication that you're not happy with your life here. You're very much a mother, to a kid who isn't yours, and the sole owner of an establishment that seems to be doing pretty well for itself. And I've seen my share of shady watering holes in ports bigger than this — a general lack of business usually means the proprietor stops giving a damn, but then there's you with your routines and your regular opening hours."

From anyone else, Makino wondered if that might have sounded condescending, but the smile she found when she looked at him only held that strange wonderment.

Shanks shrugged, and looking at her, "And yeah, you're young, which I think is pretty incredible. Do you want to know what I was doing at twenty? Not being responsible, I can tell you that much." Something strange entered his expression then, and his smile twisted with what looked like bitterness. It looked wrong on his face, Makino thought. "Got into a lot of fights. Had a lot of unresolved issues with the world. A lot of anger." He shrugged. "Took years to let all of it go, but I don't think you would have liked me all that much at twenty."

Oh, she wanted to ask — wanted desperately to know what had left him so angry. She wondered if it had anything to do with whoever had given him those scars. Or maybe it was something else entirely. Seven years ago had already seen the start of what they called the Great Age, and things had been turbulent, Makino knew, those first few years after Gold Roger's execution. Even if she'd been too young to bother much with it at the time, the dealings of pirates on faraway seas, she'd caught snippets from Emiko's patrons — Suzume, oaths tucked under her breath, but cut off with a sharp look when Emiko had caught Makino eavesdropping.

She wanted to know, like she wanted suddenly to know everything about him — like what had first made him set out to sea, and to decide to pursue piracy, of all things. She wanted to know who'd given him those scars, and to hear about the things he'd seen, faraway ports and seas and people.

But watching him now, she had the sudden impression that asking would be too much — that whatever they were or weren't, this was a conversation for another day. And so with a firm grip on her curiosity, she tucked the questions away, and with a soft breath, said, "I don't care who you were at twenty. I like who you are now."

Shanks looked at her, and the note of old grief bled out of his expression so fast she wondered for a moment if she'd imagined it. But when he laughed, it sounded curiously rough. "And you say that I make it sound easy," he said.

She had the sudden urge to reach for his hand. "I guess when you put it like that..."

"And she sees his point, at long last," Shanks said, a laugh-sigh. "Seriously, though. Who's to say I'm not finding your interest any less remarkable?"

The opportunity presenting itself, she grabbed it. "In my defence, Captain, you're the one who keeps seeking me out. Did you ever consider that I don't have much of a choice but to indulge you?"

"Good grief, you're getting disconcertingly quick with those comebacks." He shook his head. "But you make a fair point, even in jest." He met her eyes then, brows furrowing slightly, "You'd tell me, right? If you'd rather I left you alone?"

She smiled. "I don't think you need to worry about that."

She watched as his brows lifted, pleasure settling across his expression. "Yeah?"

She shrugged. "I like your company."

"Just my company?"

She cut him a look, cheeks warming at the suggestive lilt in his voice. "And your...attentions."

Shanks grinned. "Is that what the kids are calling it these days? So polite about it." She flushed, and he laughed. "Ah, and here I thought that blush couldn't get any deeper." His eyes shone with mischief, and something that had warmth pooling, low in her stomach. "And where have your thoughts gone now, my dear?"

The weight of his gaze now was an entirely different sort, and her breath felt suddenly heavy in her chest. And for a moment she was terrified that he was going to actually push for an answer — that they were going to have _this_ conversation too, right on the heels of one that had taken every ounce of courage she'd possessed to broach.

But before her worries had had time to settle, "About what I said before," Shanks said, and surprised her by reaching for her hand where she'd tucked it between her knees. And it was small enough for him to wrap his own around with ease, his skin rough and warm as he gave her fingers a squeeze.

"I'm not going to tell you what to think or feel. I'm not in the habit of doing that, and I'm not about to start now. But even if I was, you probably wouldn't listen to me anyway, stubborn thing that you are." The look he gave her was patiently fond. "But I am here, believe it or not. And I never go places I don't want to go."

The simple utterance was given, devoid of even a single embellishment, but its effectiveness was undeniable, leaving her staring, and curiously speechless.

"No flattery this time?" Makino asked then, when she'd managed to locate her voice. She realised she sounded breathless.

His answering grin was positively contagious, and the warm flutter in her stomach was such that it made her wonder how she'd lived without this feeling her whole life. "Since you proved so curiously resistant, I thought I'd try my hand at bare-faced honesty. Not that my flattery isn't honest. When I say you're beautiful to the point of distraction, I'm not exaggerating."

Makino had half a mind to question if it was possible to pass out from blushing too much, and scrambled for a response that wasn't the stupid, _pleased_ smile she felt stretching across her whole face.

"Oh? Flattered, is she?"

She huffed. "Don't sound so pleased."

"I'm not allowed to be pleased that I've pleased you?" Shanks asked, pouting. "But I love pleasing you."

The last remark sounded suddenly like it carried an entirely different significance, and the wicked glint in his eyes was there for less than a second, but she caught it, and then the warm flutter in her stomach was replaced with something else; a wholly recognisable feeling, given the nature of some of her favourite books, although suddenly terrifying now with a very real person having prompted it. And with the realisation, the shiver of heat dropped below her stomach, all the way down to—

She shoved the thought away before it had time to properly register, hoping he couldn't tell just how mortified it left her feeling. Mortified, and something else entirely.

Mistaking her shiver for the cold, Shanks began to rise, pulling her with him effortlessly. "Time to get you inside before you catch a cold."

Still flustered, Makino was surprised the remark came to her as quickly as it did. "The man who wears sandals in winter suggests I might get sick?"

"Are you going to gloat over the irony, or are you going to take my suggestion to heart?"

She pressed her mouth together, hiding a smile. Her cheeks still felt too warm for comfort, and he was standing so close it was hard to catch her breath. "Such a mother-hen. Who would have thought?"

Shanks sighed. "And thus my compliments are rewarded."

Despite her distraction, her laugh was an earnest thing. "I'm sorry, Captain. Did you think this would be easy?"

His smile was nameless. "I would have been disappointed if it was," he said, reaching out to touch his fingers against her hair, to push some of it back into her kerchief. "I told you I like a challenge."

She had the sudden thought that they were bordering a little too close to that other conversation again; the one she didn't quite feel ready to have, but the thought of which refused to leave her with him standing so close, as comfortable in close proximity as he was anywhere else. Not even an arm's length between them, her brow was barely level with his chest, but fixing her eyes on it didn't exactly help, the hard lines under his loose shirt making her fingers twitch against her sides, a sudden case of fight-or-flight that left her feeling weak-kneed and reeling.

She drew back then, stepping out of his warmth and from under the weight of his eyes as she made to turn towards the slope, dragging a breath through her nose as she went, and, "Coming, Captain?" she called over her shoulder, but didn't turn back to look at him as she set off towards the village. And she didn't wait for him to catch up, needing the offered space to catch her breath, and to wrangle her rising insecurities into something manageable before she was forced to face his whole crew.

And not for the first time, watching Party's coming into view and feeling Shanks' presence at her back, an impression that never wholly left once you knew it, Makino craved advice; anything that could help decide her course, faced now with uncharted waters and not a shred of sailing experience to speak of. New and thrilling waters, undoubtedly, but with depths dark and damning for those who dived in without thinking.

Of course, thinking hadn't exactly proved successful so far, but then what did that leave her with?

The answer presented itself when she made to cross the porch and Shanks caught up with her, hand bumping against hers with deliberate care, and the jolt that ran up her arm went straight to her heart. And before he could stride past, Makino twisted her hand, fingers brushing against his wrist, finding the veins of his forearm, and the action had his brows lifting in surprise. A very small action, but slipping past him as he held one of the doors open to let her through, it felt suddenly, entirely significant.

 


	9. venture off the beaten page

The floor of her private bathroom had always been uncomfortably cold, but it felt like a distinctly judgemental sort of cold today; an entirely merciless treatment, given the hell her spectacular hangover was already subjecting her to, but even with the added discomfort, Makino couldn't make herself move.

She'd spent more than a few hours throughout her life locked in her bathroom, nursing everything from angry tears to sheer, teenage obstinacy. A small pocket of privacy in a home that saw more people passing through it than most — patrons and visitors, and villagers just stopping by for a chat. Sometimes the storeroom would serve the same purpose, although Emiko had had little patience where that was concerned — especially if the reason behind her willing seclusion was obstinacy.

Now, obstinacy would have been wholly preferable to the mortified embarrassment that sat in the bathroom with her, like a particularly unhelpful friend, come to gloat rather than to aid.

Curling her toes, Makino suffocated a groan against her raised knees. The headache pounding against her skull had woken her with the sun, and hadn't relented since, seeming cheerfully at peace with joining her embarrassment in turning her morning into a living nightmare.

 _If only it was a nightmare._  They said enough alcohol could make you forget, but it seemed to be the opposite in her case, finding the memories with ease whenever she closed her eyes— 

 _—warm hands slid down her neck, her shoulders, rough palms catching against her skin and_ _pulling a half-choked noise from deep in her chest. Her own hands were far less successful, clumsy and shaking in their hesitant exploration of the broad expanse of skin beneath her palms._

_She shivered, fingers clenching together in a desperate attempt at stifling her nervousness, the feeling pushing itself upwards, to lodge itself at the base of her throat—_

She shouldn't have been drinking. She should have known better not to, and she could practically hear Emiko's voice hammering against her skull, a headache in its own right:  _Rule number one, Makino — don't drink with the customers._ _It's bad business, for one, and it usually only leads to worse business — the kind that'll wake you with more regrets than just a hangover._

She'd known better. Oh, she'd known so much better, and yet she'd broken the cardinal rule without so much as a backwards glance.

But the mood had been good, the whole tavern doused in laughter and off-key singing; a celebration just for the sake of celebration, and she'd been well on her way to being charmed right out of her wits by the man who'd sauntered into her tavern and her life and turned the latter completely on its head.

She couldn't remember when she'd taken that first sip, but she could remember the second, and the third — and the following contest to see who'd be able to chug a whole pint first, which she was pretty sure Shanks had won. But even with most of it a fine blur, the one thing Makino remembered without problem was what came after.

Head swimming and with what felt like every bared stretch of skin flushed with heat, each reaction in part from the liquor, in part from the entirely inappropriate comments that had rolled off his tongue with his laughter, her insecurities had fled, forced to retreat along with the sensible little voice in her head sometime after her third glass. Her better judgement and sense of common decency had followed suit, along with whatever inhibitions she might have possessed before she'd tipped back her fourth drink.

She couldn't remember who'd made the first move. Not that it really mattered, but she feared it might have been her. And she really didn't want to think about how she'd gone about the whole thing; the shameless proposition offered with nothing but her hand on his wrist, tugging, and the laughing, stumbling kisses it had led to. She couldn't even remember how they'd made it up the stairs—

_—strong hands wrapped around the wrists of her trembling ones, thumbs sketching over the sensitive skin just above her pulse. Her heart felt like it was threatening to break through her ribcage, and she clenched her eyes shut, trying to stop the tears from coming. God, she was so nervous._

_A soft kiss brushed her jawline, then her neck right below her ear, and her knees just about fell out from beneath her. Braced against his chest, she tried to force her breathing into something that didn't sound like she was_ _about to pass out._

" _Makino."_

No— she couldn't remember just how they'd ascended the stairs, past the vague inclination that it had included lots of tripping and laughter stifled against bare skin. But what she did remember was that in the midst of those hungry, searching kisses, the look he'd given her — that dark, focused gaze that took no prisoners, and that made it seem as though he'd never once seen anyone quite like her — had suddenly made her wonder just how many girls had ever felt the same under his eyes.

The thought hadn't sat well with her at the time, and despite the buzz of her inebriation, which had softened the edges of her nervousness and her judgement sense, she'd hesitated more than once — something that hadn't gone unnoticed.

_"You're shaking."_

_She couldn't look at him._ " _I'm fine. Really, I'm just—_ _"_ _She looked down, resting her brow against his chest. Her breathing was ragged, and the knot in her stomach had coiled so tight she thought she might throw up._ _Her hands shook, and her body seemed intent on ignoring her orders, or her repeated assurances to herself to just go with it._

 _But anything and_ _everything she'd ever read about a moment like this had fled her mind the second he'd slid his hands under her shirt, officially overstepping whatever line had been drawn between them since their stumbling beginning, and even with his small gestures inviting her own — the hands nudging hers, and the weight of his palm against her back, pushing her closer —_ _she couldn't seem to manage a response._

Clenching her eyes shut, she rubbed at her temples, as though to scrub away the images — not of how he'd looked, his hair falling into his eyes and his shirt hanging loose off his shoulders — but of the way she'd fumbled, and the tears she hadn't been able to stifle, despite her many attempts.

And of course Shanks had noticed, but then it had been impossible not to with how close he'd been sitting, arms wrapped around her like they'd been made to fit — like she'd been made to fit, every soft dip and hollow tucked against the harder length of him.

She tried not to think about it, but of course that meant she did. And the worst by far hadn't been her fumbling nervousness, but the look in his eyes — the flash of concern that he'd overstepped, darkening with regret. Because she'd wanted it, she hadn't doubted that. She'd wanted _him,_ it was just—

It was just that she'd been so scared she couldn't _breathe_  — couldn't focus past her shaking hands to even think of where to put them, seized by the sudden realisation that she had no idea what came next, or what it would mean to take that step. And she'd only known him for a total of four months, only a handful of days of which had been spent in his company, and even if that had never stopped the heroines in her novels from their moonlit escapades with handsome strangers they met and claimed in the same breath, the sudden, yawning gap between fiction and reality had been too much to bear—

 _—t_ _he thumbs caressing her wrists were suddenly on her cheeks, wiping away the tears she hadn't been able to hold back. Shame rose within her,_ _and she ducked her head, fitfully attempting to hide herself._

_She hadn't expected the kiss to her temple, or the softly voiced apology ghosting her ear, but there it was, one following the other, before he was pulling away, a rueful smile the last of his offerings before the door to her bedroom slid shut, muffling the sound of his retreating footsteps._

_The scene was suddenly all too familiar, but she didn't have the voice to call after him this time, hands still shaking where she stood, bared to the waist and with his touch a lingering warmth on her skin, the bat-wing doors keening softly beyond the edge of her hearing—_

She spared a thought to whether resting her head against the freezing tiles would soothe her headache somewhat — or at the very least, the stubborn blush of shame that gripped her skin, thinking about her actions. The bathroom door loomed before her, cheerfully mocking where it kept her secluded from the rest of the world; the day she would have to face, sooner or later.

She didn't want to think about what the rest of the crew thought. Honestly, thinking about what _Shanks_ thought was bad enough, and even now, free too peruse all her thoughts and insecurities at her own leisure, Makino couldn't decide what she regretted most — fuelling the fire, or dousing it with water when it got too hot.

 _Stupid, stupid, stupid. Can't even make up your mind about what you want._ _So he has experience! You can't change the fact that you_ _don't_ _unless you do something about it._

Lower lip sucked between her teeth, she considered the voice — the one she couldn't decide if sounded more like Emiko or Suzume. Either seemed entirely liable to offer that kind of no-nonsense advice, which wasn't 'advice' so much that it was a figurative cuff across the back of her head. And in the case of the former, Makino wouldn't have been surprised if a literal cuff had followed the words.

It did bother her a little, the fact that he seemed to know exactly what he was doing, and then proceeding to demonstrate it, thoroughly and seemingly without effort, when all she could manage was to hesitate at every turn. A paradox, maybe, when she'd imagined the scenario so many times while he'd been gone; when she'd found his experience far more thrilling. She hadn't minded then, the thought of him showing her, where to touch and what to do, and there'd been no hesitation in her imagination, only anticipation, thinking of his hands on—

Sighing, she dropped her forehead against her knees.

An _idiot_ , that's what she was.

The persistent thought crept back, slipping past her headache and the lingering memory of his hands pushing her shirt off her shoulders, of what Shanks was thinking. But she didn't have to consider it long to find her answer. If everything else she'd said and done hadn't already convinced him of her inexperience, then this had to have spelled it out rather plainly. In bold, capital letters.

She doubted he had any more patience left to deal with her after this, despite his earlier assurances. And she couldn't really blame him. Who in their right mind would want such an insecure, conflicted lover when there were probably a dozen more experienced ones just waiting in the next port, all more than happy to return his—

A soft rap on the door had her nearly jumping out of her skin, and her heart lurched in her chest as the various possibilities presented themselves, all of them terrible, before stuttering back into a normal pace again as the most obvious remained.  _It's probably just Suzume-san come to check up on me. I should have been downstairs hours ago, and—_

"I hope you haven't gone off and died in there."

So much for relief, and the horror that washed across her a moment later lodged her voice in her windpipe, recognising the warmly amused baritone, and the presence that accompanied it. She hadn't even heard him approaching, and had no idea how she'd missed it, feeling him so clearly now where he stood on the other side of the door.

"You know, speaking up to prove my statement wrong might placate my mind a little," Shanks continued, a note of genuine worry creeping into his voice now. "Or do I have to break down the door to make sure you're alright? It would be fantastically heroic and undoubtedly very impressive on my part, but I doubt you'll appreciate having to replace it afterwards."

Pushing a sigh past her lips, Makino tucked the heels of her palms against her eyes, but couldn't quite stop the smile at his obvious attempt at lightening the mood. "No heroic flourishes necessary, Captain," she spoke up finally, swallowing the slight quaver in her voice. She hoped he hadn't caught it.

There was a smile in his voice when he spoke, "Good. I had my doubts there for a moment when I came in and there was no sign of you or the mop you're usually wiping the floor with at this hour."

She didn't know what to make of the fact that he was apparently so attuned to her routines, but settled for shaking her head. She'd given up trying to make sense of him altogether, and his presence now after their parting last night was testament enough as to why.

Heaving another sigh, she chewed on her cheek, pondering the wisdom of inviting him in, or sending him off. But one glance at her naked legs, and the too-short shirt she'd pulled on, had her immediately deciding against the first, although her entirely _unhelpful_  mind had already taken that possibility into consideration, and was presenting her with a rather graphic example of what might transpire if she did, no doubt spurred by the thoughts she'd been considering only moments before, of the light pressure of his mouth against that spot on her neck she hadn't known was so _sensitive—_

"Makino?"

Stifling a groan against her palms, she addressed the man behind the door, "Captain, I'm not really decent at the moment, and my clothes are in my room, so if you wouldn't mind—"

The abrupt _click_ of the doorknob turning, followed by the door itself swinging open, dragged a strangled noise of surprise past her lips as she scrambled to cover herself with — nothing, because the nearest towel was slung across the bathtub on the other end of the room. And driven by embarrassed anger, she was about to snap at him — to demand just what the hell he thought he was _doing,_ when she was startled further by something flying at her from the open doorway, smacking against her and turning the room completely dark.

Fumbling with the familiar fabric, she pulled it off her head, no mercy offered to her already sleep-mussed hair, and blinked in surprise as she took in the cloak now in her hands, the excess fabric pooling over her lower body and onto the tiled floor.

Then she lifted her eyes to Shanks, leaning against the doorway with that infuriatingly casual I-wasn't-made-to-fit-the-world-it-was-made-to-fit-me kind of grace that she'd envied from the moment they'd met. His shirt hung, half-buttoned as was his way, and his hair looked to be drying from a wash, darker than usual and pulled back from his brow. He'd left his sandals downstairs, although she wondered why the polite gesture was at all surprising.

There was a smile on his face as he took her in, seated against the wall opposite, half-drowned in the cloak he usually wore around his shoulders, small toes sticking out from where the hem grazed the floor. Her mouth worked, attempting to form words, and her struggles only served to make his grin widen.

"Don't look so scandalised," he chirped. "You're very decent now."

Her cheeks blossomed with heat, but from prevailing embarrassment or frustration, it was hard to tell. "Is this amusing to you?"

"Would you be very upset if I said 'yes, tremendously'?" came his easy reply, and the corners of his eyes crinkled with said amusement.

She gave a soft huff, hands arranging the fabric around her to make sure she was covered completely, burying them in the soft material to keep them from going to her hair in a feeble attempt at straightening her bed-head.

"What are you doing here?" she asked then, the wary voicing followed by the flick of her gaze as she tried to look for somewhere safe to rest it — his eyes were out of the question, and so was his half-naked chest, and she wasn't even going to allow it to drift any lower that that, towards the sharp jut of his hips and—

Shanks cocked his head, eyes twinkling, and Makino had the sudden, horrified thought that he'd caught on to what she was thinking. "Would you believe me if I said I needed to use the bathroom?"

The look on her face probably said enough about what she thought of his attempted levity, and so he straightened, expression losing some of its humour. "I was looking for you, actually," he said then. "I was worried about the other night, and when I couldn't find you, I could only assume my concerns were valid."

She kept her eyes fixed on her feet, peeking out from under the cloak. She didn't know what to make of any of it — the fact that he'd been concerned enough to seek her out, and that he didn't seem to be harbouring any ill-feelings, at least insofar as the night before went. She didn't _understand._

"I'm fine," she said at length, and kept herself from plucking at the cloak.

"Hmm, yes. That's why you've stationed yourself in the bathroom in the middle of the afternoon?"

Her eyes snapped to his, her glare suddenly piercing. "I happen to like the bathroom. It's a good place to think."

"...it's _freezing."_

She ignored him. "You've found me, and I'm fine. Now can you please leave? I'm not getting up until you do."

He arched a brow at that, and completely ignoring her request, stepped fully inside and closed the door behind him. And before she could muster the voice to protest, he'd slid down to sit against the door, arms crossed over his chest and his expression all but daring her to comment.

A slight grimace twitched at his mouth, and she watched him shift his weight against the cold tiles.

"Captain—"

He cut her off, "Nope. Me first." Makino gaped, and was about to speak again when he beat her to it, "When I left last night, I almost went back twice. No — three times, in total. The first was when I'd taken two steps out of the bar, and the second was when I'd gotten back to the ship. And the third was once I'd gotten _on_ the ship and Ben gave me this look — you know the one that manages to be both judgemental and disappointed at the same time? — and I really don't think he bought whatever excuse I gave him, but the point is, I can't say walking out like that was my finest moment. And I don't know if I made the right choice, just up and leaving you without an explanation. However, I can't be sure until I hear it from you."

He paused, eyes locking onto hers, and Makino doubted she could have looked away now if she'd wanted to. "And so I'm asking you," Shanks said then. "Should I have come back?"

Stunned speechless by his admission, for a moment all she could do was stare at him. She'd thought of calling after him, but she hadn't even considered that the feeling might have been mutual — there'd just been something so terribly final about his departure, as though it had sealed something between them; or worse, ended something.

And despite her conflicted feelings, his words had hope pushing up her throat now, the full, honest force of it expanding behind her ribcage, until it felt like there wasn't room for anything else, and even the tightly wound knot in her stomach began to loosen.

She opened her mouth to speak, and closed it. And her eyes slipped shut as a smile pulled at her lips, her shoulders giving a small heave as the sheer and utter ridiculousness of the situation finally came to settle — two grown people, a pirate captain and a barmaid, and a bathroom's worth of insecurities between them.

None of her books had ever covered this bit.

"I wanted to run after you, if that's any indication of what I feel," she said then, raising her eyes to his. Shanks looked surprised, before a smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. Makino shrugged, and watched his cloak shift, slipping a bit. "I let my insecurities get the better of me. Insecurities you'd tried to placate only yesterday, I know, but..." she trailed off, and for all that it had been the only thing on her mind all day, she didn't know where to begin to describe what she was feeling now.

"If it helps," Shanks began then, breaking the silence that had settled on the heels of her words. "I had no idea what I was doing, either."

Makino blinked. "What? But you—"

His smile turned suddenly wry. "I'm not going to lie to you — you're not my first. There have been others, but then I suspect you already knew that."

She didn't nod. It seemed unnecessary, somehow. "But," Shanks said then, and with a laugh that she couldn't quite place. "With you, I'm suddenly at a loss." He shrugged, but the smile that pulled at his mouth wasn't regretful in the least.

She was aware that she was blushing, but it was hard to keep it at bay, with him looking at her like that — kin to the look he'd given her yesterday, and with that thought followed another, of his mouth at the soft juncture of her neck, kissing the tender meeting point of her pulse and her skin. He hadn't seemed to be at a loss then, and yet — his hands might not have trembled like hers, but they'd touched her with care, always mindful of her reactions; her small responses. He'd been careful with her, where a different man might not have bothered.

"My, what thoughts are we having now?" And Makino didn't have to look at him to know just what kind of smile had settled on his lips — she knew it well enough to recreate it in her mind, half-wicked and staggeringly fond.

She glared, although the blush didn't relent. "This is your fault, you know," she said, hands gripping the cloak. "I was never this distracted before you showed up."

Shanks seemed entirely pleased by that admission. "Oh no? What about all those books?" His raised his brows. "Plenty of distracting things in those, at least if I'm going by the one cover I caught sight of on your nightstand. Even I know you're supposed to button up a velvet waistcoat." He tilted his head, "Then again, given what the heroine was doing, that waistcoat was probably on its way off."

She flushed, and tried to ignore his shit-eating grin. "That's— different. I don't let that distract me from my work." Well — at least not anymore, although Makino doubted Emiko would have thought it much of a victory, given what she was doing now.

"Am I that distracting?"

His expression was full of unashamed delight, and for all her attempts at keeping a straight face, she didn't succeed in the least. "I think you already know the answer to that," Makino murmured, tucking her toes under the cloak.

"Maybe. But you can't really fault a guy for wanting to hear it, especially given how big a distraction you've been."

Her smile was too quick for her to school into obedience. "You did mention something like that," Makino said.

Shanks hummed. "Yeah." She could practically hear the grin. "Something like that."

Silence pooled between them, but it was a comfortable quiet now, even with all the things still sitting in it, unspoken and otherwise. Then — "It's your move," Shanks said, drawing her eyes back to his.

When she looked at him, he was observing her from across the small space, at ease where he sat, arms still crossed over his chest, although no longer in challenge. "I'm not going to tell you what to feel, and I'm not going to tell you what to do. And I won't overstep any boundaries between us. That hasn't changed." Then, the corner of his mouth quirking, and when he spoke his voice had dropped an octave, "Well. Unless you want me to. In which case, I will happily overstep. And with gusto."

She was sure he caught the way her breath hitched at the sound of it, but he was kind enough not to point it out, although she felt his reaction keenly in the near-palpable touch of his gaze. But, "It's your decision," Shanks said, "and you set the pace." His mouth lifted, "I'm amenable to a lot of things, you'll find."

She wondered how he could make something so innocent sound so —  _not_ innocent, and had to fight down more than just a blush this time. But she also recognised it as his way of easing the tension — the way he had of lightening the mood, but without trivialising the issue at hand.

And it should have been simple, the choice put before her like that. She would decide if she was ready — would decide _when_ she was ready. He'd left it entirely up to her.

Why then, didn't that settle her mind?

"Does it sound very ridiculous if I say that I don't know exactly what I want?" she asked then, softly.

Shanks didn't answer at once, but his smile held the warmth she'd begun to associate with him, and his eyes had that mischievous gleam that told her he was more than willing to help her figure out just what it was she wanted.

"Not ridiculous," he said then, seeming to consider her where she sat. "If you ask me, half the fun is in the discovery."

Makino shook her head, but her smile was pleased, and her earlier embarrassment and fear of rejection felt like old ghosts under his gaze now. Gripping the cloak, she pushed to her feet, tucking it securely around her hips. Looking down at herself, she couldn't help the snort from escaping.

"Well, if I don't sound ridiculous, I'm sure I look the part."

His laughter held none of her derision as he rose to join her. "Well, it's a cloak, not a skirt, but I can't say 'ridiculous' is the word that comes to mind." His fingers brushed the tips of her hair, free of its usual kerchief, and he tucked it gently behind her ear. And there was that deepening of his voice again, and the implication had her heart leaping against her ribs.

The air felt suddenly thick, seeming to solidify as they stood there, gazes locked and his hand warm against her cheek. And she could feel her indecision like a living thing, a push-and-pull of uncertainty and desire, and the near-dizzying happiness his mere presence evoked barely restrained by the cooler, sensible part of her that told her to slow down before the boundaries he'd spoken of vanished completely, and her heart pushed her into doing something she wasn't sure she was ready for.

Shanks stepped back then, and the spell broke, cleaving down the middle and pushing a starved breath up her throat in the same second. But she saw now that for all his ease he was far from unaffected, as he reached to hold the door open. And even if it was done with the intent to let her see, she drew some surety from his own conflict, so clearly visible on his face.

Padding outside, cloak still clutched around her lower body, Makino focused her attention on locating something to wear, at least before she gave into the sudden impulse to drop the material completely, if only to gauge his reaction. She'd always been told her curiosity would one day get the better of her, and watching Shanks now, she couldn't help but wonder at the truth of that statement. Even with their conversation fresh in mind, there was the thought — that she could kiss him, and he wouldn't mind it. And that she could touch him, and he'd reciprocate. Eagerly.

 _Not yet._ And the thought was curiously insistent as she watched him disappear downstairs, a promise of helping himself to her larder drifting back to her as she heard him descend the steps.

She drew a deep breath, redirecting her thoughts from those broad shoulders now that they weren't covered by the cloak she had wrapped around her middle. No — not yet, but something told her it wouldn't be long before her curiosity paired up with her desire and launched her bodily into action.

First things first, though — there were questions she needed answered.

And she knew just the person to ask.

 


	10. tender, dog-eared moments

"What's with the look?"

Makino fought to keep her smile innocent, biting down on the inside of her cheek as she rested her weight on the counter. A surprisingly steady hand pushed a newly polished glass forward, the dark amber liquid swirling inside as it slid across the bar-top; a small whirlpool to match her thoughts, and the restless, tilting skitter of her heart in her chest.

A sharp grey brow arched at the offered drink, before the calculating eyes beneath settled on Makino herself. Suzume's frown twisted, pulling her hard features into an acutely _knowing_ look.

Makino briefly entertained the idea of snatching the glass back and making a mad dash for the door, but a gnarled hand clamped over her wrist, as though she'd sensed her intentions. "So it's finally come to this, has it?"

Makino glared, and hoped it was more effective than she feared. "I don't know what you're talking about, Suzume-san," she said, trying feebly to slip her hand free of the old woman's iron grip. Her plan had been to stealthily coax the answers out of her after getting a few glasses of potent alcohol in her system, loosening her tongue, along with her suspicions. But the old bat was apparently far more perceptive than Makino would have guessed, and her ploy had obviously been discovered.

And going by the grin on her face, she was going to hear about it.

"Y'know, I was wondering when you'd work up the courage, after that last conversation of ours," Suzume mused, letting go of Makino's wrist to reach for the glass, tipping it languidly before taking a sip. Her eyes glittered with the same mischief Makino regularly saw in the eyes of the man who was, indirectly or not, the cause of her current predicament.

"Again," Makino said carefully, eyes narrowing in a last attempt at keeping at least some of her remaining dignity, "I don't know what you're talking about."

Suzume snorted, downing the drink and putting the glass back down, gesturing that she wanted another. Makino heaved a sigh, lamenting the wisdom of her decision, however wilfully made, and that she really should have thought this through a little better, before refilling the glass and sliding it back across the counter.

"So," Suzume said then, setting her second tumbler back down, and fixing her sharp eyes on Makino. "What do you want to know?"

Fighting to keep the blush off her face — and damn it, couldn't she for once manage to keep her expression neutral? — Makino swallowed. "Um—"

And just like that, every possible question she'd thought about asking saw fit to abandon her.

Suzume snorted. "Well? Go on, kid. If you have questions, ask 'em. I'm old—I might keel over any minute, and unless you want to ask _Garp—"_

Makino huffed a startled laugh. "Please don't ever joke about that, Suzume-san." God, just the _prospect._ "And it's not that simple!"

"Sure it is. You have a question, ask it. If I know the answer," her eyes gleamed, her grin stretched, a wicked curve of lewd mirth, "which is more than likely, given the nature of the question, I'll give you the best advice I have. Take it or leave it, girly."

Rubbing her temples, Makino felt helplessness tug at her heartstrings. There was no chance she was going to get out of this conversation without looking like a complete idiot — or at the very least feeling like one. And she doubted the old woman was ever going to let her live it down. As was more likely, she'd keep reminding her until the day she really did keel over.

"Oh, don't look so constipated, brat. Who do you think your old girl came to in her time, hmm? You're not the first to come to this old woman for advice, let that just be said." A teasing grin pulled at the corners of her lips, and Makino felt her stomach drop. "'Course, Em was just shy of sixteen when she started asking. Mah, can't help the fact that you turned into such a prude, Ma- _chan._ You're here now, at least. I was wondering if you'd ever get your head out of those damn books."

Makino sighed, "Great."  _Why do I feel like I'm going to regret this?_

She had her answer a second later when Suzume asked, with all the subtlety of a sledgehammer, "So did you do it yet?"

Her mouth worked, and she fought to keep down her furious blush, the combination of which told the old woman all she needed to know.

The affirmation came, as expected, in the form of a snort. "Guess that answers that question. So how far have you gone, then?" When Makino still had no answer, she rolled her eyes. "C'mon, no need to be shy. And no need to sugarcoat it, either—I've heard things so vulgar it'd give a girl like you nightmares."

 _Lovely._ "Well, there's been—kissing." The arched brow she got for that made Makino huff. "Not just kissing. Kiss _ing._ "

"There's a difference?"

Makino suppressed the urge to scream into her hands.

"Alright, I'll make it simple," Suzume said then, and Makino peeked past her fingers. "Are we talking other places than the usual?"

When she flushed, Suzume barked a laugh. "God, you don't even have to say anything, I can read all the answers on your face." She shook her head. "Now, you do realise you need to remove some clothes for it to get serious? 'Course, you don't need to remove _everything,_ time constraints and all, but that's usually how it goes. Pants, shirts and what have you. It's all about access, as I'm sure you've guessed."

Makino gave a weak nod, blush deepening. "I wouldn't say removal so much as—rearranging, and...disregarding." She swallowed, but didn't drop her gaze. It was a small victory.

For her part, Suzume's grin had only gotten wider. "That's something, at least. But good for you, kid! Didn't think you had it in you."

Makino scowled. "I appreciate your faith in me, Suzume-san."

"Sheesh, Ma-chan, you need to lighten up. No wonder shit went sideways if you're this tense." Then under her breath, "Might have helped with the tension if you'd gotten laid, though."

"Suzume-san!"

A sigh. _"Fine._ Sorry. Please continue. What do you want to know?" Her brows furrowed suddenly. "Wait—you do know the _basics,_ right? Can't have read all those novels and still be in the dark. And don't even try telling me those things are pure innocence, either. I've read some of 'em myself. Some _endowments_ are a little exaggerated, but it ain't all wrong."

Makino focused the whole weight of her attention on a crack in the bar-top. "I know the—er, the basics." She fought down her rising blush. "I just—I'm not sure—where do you put your hands?"

The bellow of laughter that met her question had her gripping the dish-rag in her hands until her knuckles turned white. "Suzume-san!"

Suzume wiped her tears, still laughing. _"God._ I'm sorry, kid. Wait, no I'm not. I should have known that damn head of yours would take such a simple thing and complicate it."

Makino huffed. "It's—" She looked away, and mumbled under her breath, "It's not as simple as you make it sound."

"Oh no? You put 'em where you want to. Simple as that." That dangerous gleam was back in her eyes. "With Red, that ought to be a good few places. I'd suggest the rear, as a personal favourite, but the shoulders are a good place to start. Especially nice and broad ones like that."

Makino considered the dish-rag, worried between her fingers. It made sense, of course it did, and put like that it sounded like the simplest thing in the world. Unfortunately, she felt like this was one of those situations where _saying_ and _doing_ were completely different things.

Entirely unmindful of Makino's conflict, Suzume was still talking, "'Course, man's built like a damn tree. Could cause trouble, you being so slight, but you should be fine. It gets easier once the clothes start coming off," she assured her. Then, with a sharp cackle, "You'll have something to occupy those fretting hands of yours with then, I'll wager!" She raised her brows. "Don't suppose you got a look at the size of his bounty while you were at it?"

Makino blinked. "The size of—"

She could tell Suzume saw the moment realisation dawned, when her smile flashed in that wide, shark-like grin. "I'll take that gaping silence as a 'no'. Mah, that'll leave some excitement for next time, I guess."

She wondered how far she'd get if she made a run for it. Probably not that far. "I'm going to pretend you didn't just ask me that," Makino said.

Suzume snorted. "You come to me asking about sex, and you're offended when I ask what he's bringing to the table?"

"I'm not—"

"You know, he's not a shy kid, that one. He'd probably tell me if I asked."

 _Oh god._ "Suzume-san—"

 _"Relax,_ brat. I'm just pulling your leg." She shook her head. "Shit, you really need to get laid."

Makino refrained from burying her face in the dish-rag. "That's what I'm trying to do!"

Suzume blinked. "You have to try that hard?" Then, her voice dropping, "Red's not..." She raised her brows.

 _"No,"_ Makino said, the battle with her blush long since lost, remembering keenly the sensation of being pressed flush against him. And Shanks hadn't exactly made a secret of it. She wondered if it might have been more gratifying if she wasn't so horrified.

"Then what the hell's the problem?"

Makino didn't answer immediately, and Suzume sighed. "Ah." And before she could ask what that sound meant, "Chickened out, did ya?"

She wanted to protest, but Suzume shot her an exasperated look. "I'm going to go ahead and assume that if he's not the problem, something happened that made one of you back off. And no offence, but knowing you, Ma-chan, I'll wager you were the one doing the backing-off."

Makino was ready to say that _no,_ Shanks was the one who'd pulled away, but stopped herself. She couldn't really deny that it had been her hesitation that had made him do just that.

"I was—scared," she admitted then. "About a lot of things." A huffed breath, holding more than just frustration. "And so I—I hesitated." _A lot._

The snort didn't surprise her one bit. Suzume tossed back the last of her drink, and Makino didn't need to look up to know she was being observed. "And what did he have to say about it?"

Lips pursing in an attempt to hide the smile that slipped right past her troubles, Makino turned her gaze to the window, remembering his words from the other day. "That I set the pace."

Her companion gave a thoughtful hum. "That right? Huh. Wouldn't have guessed." But something passed across her expression then, shifting the hard planes of her face into something Makino didn't recognise, before Suzume said, as though to herself, "Or maybe it's not that strange. A good man, that one. _Che_ , could already tell. Cap wouldn't have given him that damn hat if he wasn't."

"Suzume-san?"

The old woman blinked, her eyes settling on Makino again. "What?"

Makino had half a mind to pry, but curbed the impulse. "Nothing. I just—what would you say would be the right moment? For—for something like that."

"You mean for sex?"

At her unamused look, Suzume scoffed. "See now, this is your head making simple things unnecessarily difficult. Every moment's the right moment, as long as you don't have any spectators. Doubt you're into that sorta thing, unless you've been holding out on this old girl."

When her look still hadn't budged, the old girl in question burst out laughing, a harsh, gravel-and-sandpaper sort of mirth. "I'm _kidding,_ Makino. Sea's tits, it's like you can't take a joke."

"I wasn't looking for a joke—I was being serious."

"I know, kid. Bless you and your innocent little heart. But you know sex doesn't have to be all that serious, right?" But before Makino could protest, Suzume sighed, "I know, it's not the sex that's the problem, it's what's behind it, yeah?"

When she gave a small nod, Suzume shrugged. "Okay, so just think it through. Weigh the worth of doing it against the consequences." She snorted. "Can't imagine the consequences that would make me pass up a tumble in the sheets with Red, but then that's me."

"Suzume-san."

"Right, right." She gave a wave of her hand. "You'll know."

Already prepared to offer a protest to what she'd expected to be another suggestive comment, Makino's mouth snapped shut. "What?"

The old woman shrugged. "When the moment comes—the right one. You'll know. Now," she said, rising from her chair and sliding the empty tumbler across the counter. "Gotta quit while the game's good. Used to have a problem, you know. See you around, brat, granted I don't drop dead tomorrow."

"Suzume-san!"

"What? Can't get much older than this. 'Sides, I told you I'd go peacefully with a man like that around. Now you just have to keep him around, you hear? For this tired old corpse, if anything."

Makino shook her head. "You're impossible."

"Haven't claimed to be anything else, kid. Now go gather up some courage, and for the love of this whole goddamn village,  _get laid_."

Ignoring the horrified look on Makino's face, Suzume proceeded to stalk out of the tavern, rubbing a hand against her spine and muttering under her breath about there being far better ways of throwing your back out than old age.

Makino watched her go, shaking her head. Had she gotten anything even remotely useful out of this conversation?

_You'll know._

She frowned. Well, there was that, but what good did that do her? How would she know? When?

Tucking a grumble under her breath, she picked up the tumbler to clean it. She couldn't have felt it yet, that was for sure. Not that she had any idea what she was supposed to _feel,_  other than certainty, but she was sure the disaster she'd sworn never to think or speak of again hadn't been the right moment. She'd been three sheets to the wind, for one, and couldn't have managed to put her hands right if she'd tried, broad and tempting shoulders notwithstanding. With such an laughable first attempt though, the second could only be an improvement.

Right?

In a fit of uncharacteristic frustration, Makino chucked the rag away from her, watching it land in a pitiful heap on the floor. Then, shoulders slumping, she bent to pick it back up, taking a moment to tuck her brow to her knees, allowing the cool shade of the wide counter to fall across her back, hiding her away, although the common room was empty and there was no one around to witness her display.

Maybe the old woman was right — maybe she was over-complicating it. But she wasn't suffering under the illusion that it would be _perfect_ —she just hoped she would know when the right moment came, and not let it pass her by.

God only knew, with her track record she wouldn't be surprised if it did.

 

—

 

In retrospect, it could have gone worse.

Really, compared to what could have happened, all the possible scenarios having run through her head both before and after the fact, it was a success.

In a manner of speaking, at least.

In all her books dealing with the subject — every wrinkled and well-thumbed bodice-ripper tucked safely under her bed, the vulgar as well as the prosy-flowery — the moment in which the heroine allowed herself to be seduced by whatever handsome captain, lord, wizard, highwayman or stable boy was her designated match, or the moment in which she took matters into her own hands, always occurred at night. Or during a fierce storm. A combination of the two wasn't unthinkable.

So that the moment it should strike Makino as being the right one — the one where she knew beyond a shadow of a doubt what she wanted, and that she wanted it _now_  — occurred in the early hours of the morning on a sunny, entirely unassuming day, struck her as somewhat anticlimactic.

She didn't know what she'd expected. All she knew was what she'd read in her books, and those moments were, as she'd had pointed out to her several times throughout her life, overly exaggerated and glorified. But despite all her warnings, a part of her had always imagined there would at least be things like candles, and flowing curtains of some sort. Maybe even a storm—not necessarily a raging one, just enough to set the mood—or pale moonlight outside her bedroom window, nevermind the fact that her curtains didn't really allow for flowing, and that the moon once up was rarely visible from her room.

Still, she'd had a somewhat... _decorative_  view of how things would go down. It involved a bed, at the very least. And she could do without the moonlight, but as any sensible girl with an over-active imagination and a small mountain of raunchy novels tucked away under her mattress, that was where she'd imagined it would happen. It was what she'd expected.

Flat on her back behind the bar was _not._

But it couldn't have been helped, and she'd realise that more than once in the years to come, recalling the moment with unbearable fondness, and just a hint of lingering embarrassment. She'd been utterly unprepared for the onslaught that had hit her that sunny-warm morning, standing at the bar with a glass in her hand, and Shanks calmly eating his breakfast across the counter.

It had been a shockingly ordinary day. He'd come in early, greeting her with a kiss, as he'd made a habit of doing in the days of their latest visit, and he'd simply sat there, eating his meal and offering quiet conversation as the sunlight crawled lazily across the floorboards. He'd worn his usual capris, and the white shirt she assumed he had an entire closet full of, hanging loosely off his broad frame. He'd washed his hair—she could tell by the dampness of it, and how some strands clung to his forehead, but there'd been nothing unusual about their meeting, or their conversation.

Except for the unexpected, near-overwhelming desire to chuck the glass in her hand, climb across the bar and kiss him senseless.

Which was what she did.

Sort of.

Of course, there'd been a distinct lack of chucking and climbing of any sort — her mind had helpfully presented her with the likely outcome of _that_ venture, and it didn't involve heated kisses so much as it involved a cast and a black eye — but it had given her an idea; a thought that, in the time following the event, would surprise her for its sheer devious nature. She hadn't been aware she even possessed ideas like that, let alone the courage to pursue them.

But she did—and she had, which was why she now found herself kneeling behind the bar, surrounded by scattered pieces of glass and with her heart in her throat.

"Makino?"

She caught the note of concern in his voice, and heard the shuffle of feet and fabric as he rose from his chair to come around the bar to check on her. And she had a moment—a single second of utter, undiluted panic where she wondered what the hell she was doing—but then Shanks was kneeling beside her, picking pieces of glass out of the cup of her palms to place atop the counter above them.

His own hands were warm, the touch of his fingers gentle, and, "Did you cut yourself?" he asked, voice a murmur as he turned her hands over to check. She was sure she'd stopped breathing.

"Makino?" He was watching her now, trying to catch her eyes, his own narrowed ever so slightly and bright with confusion—and curiosity, Makino found, swallowing thickly.

She didn't hit his chin this time, nor did she manage to inflict any damage to either of their persons. In fact, it went smoothly, and just like she'd imagined, for once. She still wasn't entirely sure what she was doing, but her hands cradled his jaw, keeping his face still as she pressed her mouth to his without a hint of her usual shyness. She'd wanted to kiss him—wanted _him_ , had orchestrated an accident to achieve her goals, and felt strangely pleased with herself, and the setting, sunny morning and lack of flowing curtains aside.

She was sure it was relief that kick-started her heart again, and pushed air back into her lungs—the staggering, knee-weakening relief when he accepted her advances without question, tugging her to him as a warm, calloused hand slipped around her neck to cup the back of her head. The kerchief she'd tied it up with fell shortly after, and with it, every ounce of tension still left in her shoulders.

The fact that they were behind the bar, into which anyone could venture at any given moment, hardly registered, and the thought to move upstairs forgot to cross her mind. It probably should have, all things considered. She'd always prided herself on being sensible above all things, but it was rather difficult to be anything at all with the grinning mouth that had once again sought out the soft dip of her pulse-point.

The hands slipping under his shirt now didn't hesitate, and she felt him respond in turn, the palm of his hand warm against the bare skin of her lower back, before curving around her hip, to tug her blouse loose of her skirt.

She felt him laughing—the warm ghost of his breath over her neck, and she shivered when he asked, amusement brimming in his voice, "Here?"

Not trusting her own voice — or fearing that it would let slip something entirely different, when she could feel it pushing up her throat as he reached under her blouse to cup her breast, Makino only nodded.

But it seemed to be enough, because then he was easing her down, one hand under her back, supporting her weight, and the hard press of the floorboards beneath her was a fleeting discomfort as he shifted his weight, his own desire suddenly, staggeringly evident.

She shoved all thoughts of  _bounties_ out of her head before she could do something ridiculous — like burst out laughing, but it was forgotten a moment later when Shanks murmured her name into the hollow of her throat, the lilt of it a suddenly new sound, and one she'd never heard before.

Her response was a far less eloquent thing — a stifled noise that felt like it had sat deep, and she felt his grin widen, his beard scratching her skin. She was only vaguely aware that her shirt was gone, far too distracted by the fact that so was his, and when he gave a tug at her skirt she wiggled her hips to help him pull it down her legs, a sudden, thrilling shot of anticipation following the removal, coming to settle in a now-familiar ache between her legs.

Of course, she should have known it wouldn't go entirely without a hitch.

She hadn't heard him approaching — would probably never have noticed, had the man above her not gone suddenly rigid, and the hand against her mouth startled her so much she let out an involuntary squeak of surprise.

"Ma-chan?"

Her eyes flew open at the voice, and the softly spoken inquiry. And she knew that if Luffy found them, Garp would never forgive her. It would be a tongue-lashing she'd feel for a decade, and that would put all the boxed ears of her childhood to shame. That was, of course, if he didn't kill her first.

For his part, Shanks remained completely still, his hand covering her mouth, as though waiting for something. She could hear the soft patter of footsteps around the common room, and prayed to whatever divine forces listening that Luffy wouldn't think of looking behind the bar.

"Huh. Ma-chan forgot her shirt," came the following observation, and the sheer, wonderful innocence of the statement had tears springing to her eyes, and she was suddenly glad of the hand over her mouth as she fought to hold back her laughter.

Shanks grinned down at her, still-damp hair falling into his eyes, dark and searching in the soft shade of the bar, and seeming to hold all of her at once.

And then she found herself subject to that _look_ again — the one that made her feel like he'd never seen anything quite like her, and suddenly she found she didn't care if he'd given the same look to someone else before her. She'd take it for herself — a pirate's treasure, it was hers if she claimed it, so said the rules of the sea, and she'd claim it and him both and no one could stop her.

Her expression must have betrayed some of her thoughts, because then he was kissing her fiercely, and everything else faded to an afterthought, stolen with a kiss so thorough it felt as though he feared he'd never get enough. He yielded some of his weight for her to carry, the gesture an almost vulnerable thing, and as her hands travelled up his chest, circling his neck to tug at the fine hairs at the back of his head, Makino let go of her fears.

Well—'let go' implying a bit more grace than what it was in truth, and, “Just— oh, just do it,” she said, with a stark sort of efficiency that tacked an involuntary wince at the back of the words. The swooning surrender of all the heroines in her daydreams seemed suddenly a laughable concept.

No doubt reading her wince as something else, “You sure?” Shanks asked. He was watching her now, and Makino felt acutely her position, between the hard floor under her back, and his own hardness against her.

Gripping his shoulders, she nodded. “I’m sure.” But when his expression still didn't yield,  _“Shanks,”_ she said, and saw his surprise at the forceful enunciation as it flickered across his face. But it had its desired effect, because then he'd ducked his head to kiss her again, his hand running up her thigh, nudging her legs apart, and Makino sucked a breath through her nose, bracing herself.

It was a little clumsy, and she knew she'd treasure the memory with an equal measure of fondness as embarrassment, having still only a vague idea of what she was doing. He seemed to have a better grasp of things, but the fact that had once bothered her more than anything seemed unimportant as large, steady hands grasped her trembling ones, squeezing them reassuringly, and she knew she'd remember that gesture for the rest of her life.

The pain was another thing she'd remember, and nothing she'd ever heard or read about could have prepared her for it. And damn her books and all the fawning virgins in them, there was nothing remotely glamorous about it, the abruptness of it all so surprising it startled a choked cry from her lips.

She felt Shanks go still above her, the heave of his breath a surprisingly startled sound, for a man whose ease had always struck her as unshakeable. "You okay?"

She managed a nod, and tried to ignore the tears slipping down her temples to gather in her hair, suddenly all too aware of every sensation — the floorboards pressing into her back, and his weight against her; the stubble on his chin scuffing her skin where he'd tucked it into the crook of her neck. "Fine."

“Makino,” she heard — then, a harder sound, the stark note of command startling a shiver into shooting up her spine. “ _Breathe_.”

She did — and then she felt him shift, his hand slipping under her back, and the sudden twinge of pleasure that followed took her by surprise, so much that she had to reach out to steady herself against him. And when he drew back to give her a reassuring smile, sympathy and a pleased sort of boyishness in his expression, Makino wondered if this wasn't what she'd remember most of all.

From there it was a mix of a great many things — some lingering discomfort as her body attempted to adjust to him, and her back ached from the repetitive motions, trapped between his weight and the floor.

But there was also pleasure, startlingly sincere, and leaving her light-headed and short of breath as she moved with him, acting on some unnameable need to pull him closer, as deep as humanly possible, until— _there,_ and her reaction was a cry that tore from her quite without her volition, an earnest and throaty sound as she tightened her legs around his waist, and it took her a moment to realise she'd been the one to make it.

She felt his own response in turn — the grip of his hands digging into her hips, and the vicious, startling oath lost in her hair as he shuddered against her, at the heels of which followed a short, winded laugh that prompted a spark of something wholly gratified in her breast.

And for one, brief-lived moment, all was as it should be. She bore his weight, the hands she hadn't known where to put splayed flat over his sweat-slicked back, and the honest rasp of his laughing breath welcomed her own as he flipped her smoothly, until she was sprawled across him, limbs loose and bumping with his, and tempting more laughter from her chest.

She didn't try to arrange herself against his shape, only sank into him, cheek pressed to his chest and her body a smaller, softer truth atop his. She felt the slight heave of his breath, and the race of his heart under her ear; things that were usually hers, and she wondered at the smile she felt, knowing that she'd had a hand in prompting both.

But then, when the contented daze she'd slipped into thinned, the pleasant buzz of the after-glow clearing from her mind, some of her earlier nervousness came back with a vengeance, dragging her insecurities and her embarrassment with it, to sit in cheerful judgement.

It didn't escape Shanks, and Makino felt his questioning touch against her back, skin on skin, and that didn't exactly help matters. "Makino."

She said nothing, brow pressed to his sternum, studiously avoiding his gaze, and she spared a thought to whether or not she could pretend she hadn't heard him.

Unfortunately, her luck was out, and Ben had warned her the man was annoyingly persistent. "You're making me worry here. What's the matter?"

She released the breath she'd been holding, but refused to lift her head to look at him. And of course he'd ask — would try to make her feel better, irrespective of his own thoughts on the matter. And she could have let him, she knew. She could have allowed him to be a gentleman about it, and pretend that everything had gone smoothly.

But — "It was awkward, wasn't it?"

She didn't know what she'd expected from that statement — half-hearted denial or reluctant agreement. Maybe a combination of both.

The bark of laughter took her by surprise, and she raised her face from where she'd been hiding it, mouth open as she prepared to ask him just what he found so amusing, because surely her botched attempt at seduction and the subsequent act wasn't anything to _laugh_ at—

The grin splitting his face had her irritation fleeing too fast for her to even register its departure, and at the sight of it Makino forgot what she'd been about to say. "You know," Shanks mused, "I've heard some pretty misplaced remarks in my time, but that one takes the cake."

She scowled, ducking her head again, and — noticing her lack of clothing and, in some sort of twisted chain-reaction, _his_ lack of clothing — suddenly the courage that had spurred her previous actions saw fit to run away and hide somewhere at the very back of her mind, pushing her self-consciousness to the front to deal with what she'd gotten herself into.

"Makino," the murmur was a soft reverberation beneath her, a small warning before she felt his hand touching her jaw, fingers curving under her chin to lift it as he met her stubbornness with his own.

"Sorry," Shanks chirped, grin cheerful, but tinged with a note of gentle reprimand, "But we're having this conversation."

She clenched her eyes shut, feeling suddenly wilful, and unable to bear the full, relentless focus of his gaze. But a kiss between her brows had them fluttering open again, to the sight of a smile that had some of her fears fleeing to whatever dark corners of her mind her courage was hiding in, and she felt some of the tension let go of her shoulders.

She had a hard time finding her voice, distracted by the sheer amount of naked skin between the two of them, and the smell of sex that sat in the air. Beneath her, Shanks seemed wholly unperturbed by both.

Finally, she sighed. "Is it supposed to be awkward?"

She caught his grin, but it was a softer thing now. "Maybe a little, the first time," he said. He'd let go of her chin now, following the line of her jaw instead, towards her ear. He shrugged. "Or with a new partner. It gets better with practice."

She tried not to focus too much on the words _new partner_ , but saw from the slight tightening of his expression that he'd caught it, and thought he might have regretted saying it. But before she could lose her thoughts to all the other partners who'd preceded her, and to wonder if she measured up and how — "Hey," Shanks said, voice anchoring her to the soft afternoon, and the feel of him beneath her. And when she met his eyes, seeming to see only her, there was no room to question whether he was thinking about someone else, if only to compare. "Was it good for you?"

The way he was looking at her made it difficult to focus, and it didn't exactly help that he was naked, and she was pressed close enough to feel _everything_  — the sharp arch of his hipbones and the toned muscles of his abdomen; the soft dusting of hair across his chest, and—

"Makino?"

She blinked. "Huh?"

The look on his face made her wonder if he'd caught on to what she'd been thinking about, and she was proven correct a moment later when Shanks laughed. "What's got you so distracted, hmm?"

She felt her blush, and wondered if he could, too, pressed as close as he was. "It's not—" She fumbled for the right words, her own laugh soft. "You're not—"

"Not...?"

She huffed, but couldn't hold back her smile. _"Helping."_

"No?" His grin turned suddenly wicked. "I can be very helpful, if you want me to be."

Her laugh rushed out. "Oh, I don't doubt it."

Shanks only grinned, before it eased into something gentler, along with his expression. She felt him flick her ear. "You didn't answer my question."

She tried very hard not to duck her head. "It was—a lot of things." At his look, she was quick to add, "Good things! Ah, mostly, I mean. But it was—"

 _"Makino._ It's okay," Shanks said, a laugh pulling free. He always made laughing seem so effortless. "I just wanted to know that you were happy." He paused, and then, "No regrets?"

She shook her head, certain about that, even with all the other uncertainties begging for her attention. "No."

"Good." He smiled, and she felt the brush of his fingers across her back, an easy caress following the length of her spine, up and down. And he always touched her like that — like he'd always been doing it, familiar with the shape of her and comfortable with showing it.

She had the sudden thought that she wanted to do the same — to touch him, like she had earlier with him above and inside her, but in the quiet aftermath when her mind wasn't half-lost to want and the feel of him, everything she did felt so deliberate, she couldn't stop second-guessing herself. Even now, the tension in her back softening under his touch, the repetitive movement of his fingers a curiously lulling thing, her own were small and hesitant; her palm pressed to his chest, a gentle weight refusing to budge despite the temptation offered by the sight of him, wondering what kind of touches he would like.

The thought brought to mind his earlier query, and she considered it now where she lay across him. And she had his reaction to go on, but it felt suddenly important that he told her, if only to silence that little voice that kept nagging her, that he was just being nice about it.

"What about you?" Makino asked, when she'd dredged up the courage to put words to the question, worrying her fingertips over a small ridge of scar tissue curving a path across his collar. And it was testament to her sudden bout of nervousness that she was distracted enough to touch him without thinking. "Was it—"

But she stopped herself before she could ask, the last words lodged at the back of her throat, and simple as they were,  _good for you_ suddenly implied more than Makino was sure she wanted to know.

"You mean it wasn't painfully obvious?" Shanks asked then, and when she looked up it was to find his expression one of absolute contentment, tinged with only the barest hint of wry amusement.

She felt herself go hot all over, remembering the sensation — the almost startled grip of his hands on her hips, and the acute sense of unravelling; a fiercely private thing, she found now, watching him where he lay, lethargic in the warm after-glow and the sunlight inching across the floorboards towards them.

She wondered what her own climax looked like, and didn't know if she was relieved or not that she hadn't gotten that far.

"What do you see in me?" she asked then, the question shoving off her tongue before she could stop it. "And—I know you've already told me, but I just—" She sighed, rubbing a hand across her brow. "I guess I just don't feel very desirable. Or graceful." She pursed her mouth. "Pretty much just awkward." She didn't even want to think about the sounds she'd made—recalling it now made her want to bury her face in his chest.

"You should try looking at it from my vantage point, clearly," Shanks said. "Because from where I'm—well, not standing at the moment, but 'awkward' is probably the last word I'd use." His grin curved, suddenly shameless, "I have a whole list of descriptions if you want to hear them, though. 'Stunning' comes to mind, and often, I might add. I'm pretty sure I've thought it four times in the past minute just looking at you."

She laughed, and marvelled a little at how it sounded, thick with delight. "Must be nice, from your vantage point."

"Pretty spectacular view, yeah." He grinned, eyes still on her face, as though he'd never get tired of the sight. "And I do love a good view."

She was suddenly tempted to agree, the shameless words perched on her tongue as she watched him where he lay. His hair had dried, and drawn back from his face now, it spilled, bright and red across the floorboards. And he usually wore his hat low, or some of it would fall into his face, but the whole, bare truth of it met her eyes now, rendering her momentarily without speech. He really was unfairly handsome, and she had the sudden urge to tell him.

But, "I don't see what you do, then," Makino said, when she'd gathered herself enough to speak. And she tried not to think about how she must look, her own hair in disarray and all of her bared for him to see. And no one had ever seen her like this—or looked at her like he did now.

"Obviously, if 'awkward' is your go-to word," Shanks offered back. His teasing grin twisted slightly then. "But while we're on the subject of looks, need I remind you that I have more scars than you'll have in fifty lifetimes? I don't know if you got a good look at the other ones, but I've got some that make my face look downright pretty."

Her touch stilled over the scar she'd been tracing with her fingertip. And she remembered the feel of the jagged mass of scar tissue jutting over his hip, to curl around his back. And there were more, Makino knew, but there was no repulsion at the thought — only a strange need to know them all, and the stories behind them.

Reaching up, she flicked his nose lightly, her smile a soft thing as he blinked. "You're rugged," she told him, letting her fingertips brush across the scars on his brow, a tentative question in the gesture, and she found his answer in the way his eyes slipped shut under her touch. "And the prettiest man I've ever met, scars and all."

He laughed out loud at that, the sound making her stomach flip, before he caught her around the waist with his free hand, pulling her closer and dragging a startled noise from her chest. "You have no idea what you do to me, do you?" Shanks asked, the question offered with a laughing breath.

Makino felt her smile soften, but doubted he could see it with her face pressed to his chest. "The feeling is very much mutual."

"And we finally agree on something. It only took us what, four months?"

"I still feel like it could have gone better," she murmured.

"Such a perfectionist," Shanks laughed. She felt his fingers threading through her hair, the action luring a contented sigh from her, making her sink against him. "Well, you won't find me hard to ask, if you want to go again."

Her cheeks coloured, but her smile wasn't far behind. "Practice makes perfect, is it?"

His laughter rumbling under her ear, "I don't think there exists a more fitting statement for sex," he mused, his grip around her back tightening, as though for emphasis. "Okay, there might be a few others, depending on who you ask, but in this case the practice-bit is part of the fun."

There was a moment's pause, and she wondered what he was thinking, when, "You can say what you want about it going better, but I have no complaints," Shanks said. Then, tone keenly musing, "And I've never done it on the floor of a bar before. Of course, none of the bars I've been in have ever been this clean, but still."

He looked at her then, his expression that once-nameless thing that Makino thought she might know what meant now. Or at least she was beginning to understand it, as Shanks said, quietly, "And then there's the girl."

She swallowed. "The girl, hmm?"

"Yeah. Devious thing, she is. Seducing me over breakfast of all things."

She knew her smile gave her away, but couldn't be bothered to even try and hide it. "I don't think the girl would agree to that assessment. She just dropped a glass. How events unfolded from there was entirely by accident."

He grinned. "Accident, huh?" The hands pinching her waist had her shrieking with laughter, the sound so startlingly _loud_  there was a moment she feared someone might come looking, but the flicker of worry was banished a moment later when she felt Shanks' hand splaying, warm against her back.

"Don't think you can fool me that easily," he told her. "I know plotting when I see it." She felt his smile against her temple, and the kiss that followed, along with the murmur, "Not that I mind you plotting. Like I said, I'm amenable to a lot of things. Just give a moment's warning."

She didn't know what it was about him that inspired her to say things likes this, but, "Careful," Makino said. "I might take that last one as a challenge to catch you off guard."

His response to that had another too-loud laugh pulling from her, as his fingers skimmed the skin of her stomach, seeking that particularly ticklish spot below her ribs. She felt the cup of his hand over her hipbone as he tucked his grin into her neck, and, _"Siren,"_ he offered the word against the song of her pulse, before pulling back to catch her mouth, the hands spanning her waist tightening their grip with mischievous intent, and she muffled her laughter against his grin.

And maybe it wasn't ideal by the standards of her favourite authors, but despite whatever lingering awkwardness she'd felt, the experience itself had far surpassed her expectations. This wasn't a story — his sudden appearance in her life might beg to differ, but what had followed afterwards couldn't even hope to compare, and the man wrapped around her was real, with all his mysterious scars and unfathomable kindness. Too real for perfection, but that realness perfect in its own, strange way.

It was probably the furthest thing from inconspicuous, the sheer volume of their combined mirth filling up her empty bar, but it was difficult finding a mind to care with the feel of his laughter beneath her, and the rest of him, warm and firm and fitting against her in that same, seemingly effortless way he had of fitting himself everywhere; the ease that made her wonder, heat pooling in her stomach, what the second time would be like.

As though having read her mind, “So,” Shanks said, grin suddenly impish. “You didn’t finish.”

Makino blinked. “What?”

"You," he said, punctuating the word with a kiss beneath her jaw. She felt the hand cupping her hip drifting lower, the gesture deliberate, before he swept his fingers lightly across the hair that curled at the apex of her thighs, and Makino sucked a breath through her nose when realisation followed, and he rumbled, "still have a little ways to go."

She swallowed. Her cheeks heated, but not with embarrassment this time. "Ah—you don't have to—"

"And if I want to?"

The look he gave her held a whole world of different things, sincerity above all else but also a bright, almost eager sort of determination that made her grin curve, quite despite her nervousness. And she didn't know why she was surprised to discover that a man who took so much pleasure from making others laugh would derive the same from giving others pleasure, too.

And there was something else, sitting beneath it all—an offer of trust, and that he should still feel the need with her naked on top of him, had her jittery heart settling, and her answer, found without trouble—

"Okay."

 


	11. promises with gilded edges

In the days that followed, her smile was hard to remove.

The whole village had to have caught on, at least going by the looks that followed at Makino's heels wherever she went. Shanks' crew had been less conspicuous about it, although their collective response had been of an entirely different sort — shamelessly pleased rather than the wary acceptance she found on the faces of Fuschia's inhabitants, all of whom seemed to be waiting for the other shoe to drop.

Well—all except Suzume, who'd taken one look at Makino, wolfish grin flashing, and, "Glad to see you got rid of that tension, kid," she'd declared for the whole common room to hear, and with about as much subtlety as a cannonball.

The crew gathered in her tavern had politely kept from voicing their own thoughts on the matter, but she'd caught more than one grin hidden away, behind glasses and collars. And then there was Shanks, who hadn't bothered to hide anything, least of all his grin, which had spoken volumes even before he'd given the old woman a wink that had seen her cackling all the way out of Makino's bar.

But for all her flustered mortification at being at the centre of attention, and with something so private, Makino preferred their happiness to what she found elsewhere in Fuschia, although she couldn't really blame them. She suspected there were more than a few who remembered a similar situation—a different time, a different barmaid, but the outcome already anticipated now, because what more could you expect from a pirate? And one as charming as Red-Hair to boot. He'd be gone soon enough, and then what?

Already having expected the murmurs, Makino ignored them, spirits too high for her to be dragged down by the churning of the local rumour mill. Of course, if Garp ever found out, there would be trouble, but as she was the sole provider of alcohol in the village, she hoped it might deter anyone from letting anything slip about her affair in Garp's presence. Not that she thought he'd actually _do_ anything, like ship her off to a convent, as was usually the way of things in her books where the romantic dalliances featured an impressionable girl of some sort; but if the rest of the village thought it a conceivable notion, then the greater the chances they'd keep their mouths shut.

She doubted Garp would take well to the news, and the thought prompted a clench of now-familiar guilt in her gut. Grown woman or not, there would always be part of her who'd remember that little girl, no father to speak of but a grizzled marine who'd sneak her odd knick-knacks behind her Mistress' back, brought from his voyages. The thought of letting Garp down, if only with her decisions, was hard on her heart.

But it was a while yet before Garp was due back for another visit, and so she went about her routines with a new bounce in her step, her joy a small, private rebellion, new and thrilling, and curiously liberating now that she allowed herself to bask in it.

Strange, how one person could make such a potent difference in her life, quiet and content as it had been before he'd walked into it. But for all her indecision regarding Shanks' place in her life, Makino felt none of it now—felt only a sense of peace having been made, although whether it was with him or with her situation, it was hard to say. She knew the two overlapped, that they were irrevocably intertwined now whether she liked it or not, although the thought found no resistance when she considered it.

Her hum sat, a soft, wordless song on her tongue as she went through her inventory list, making notes and corrections, her thoughts wandering as they tended to do, but seeking memories now rather than her books.

She thought of waking up beside him — the soft snores that had greeted her with the sun, and the length of him sprawled across her bed, taking up as much space on her mattress as he did anywhere else. And she'd spent more time watching him sleep than she was readily willing to admit, captivated by the quiet intimacy, and in a different way than the sight of him coming apart under her hands, although there was no dying what that did to her.

Blush firmly in place and the pencil having stilled against the paper in her hands, she'd forgotten what she'd been about to write, but before she could drag her thoughts back from sleepy morning kisses and the soft sounds of a sated pleasure, tucked against the skin of her throat, her attention was claimed by the sound of footsteps on her porch, followed by the slow whine of the bat-wing doors being pushed inwards.

Her smile was quick to follow, knowing already who it would be. He'd left to talk to Ben earlier, with the promise that he'd come back for breakfast, and closing the door to her pantry, it was to find him already seated at the bar.

An easy smile rested on his mouth, softening at the sight of her, but Makino had taken only a single step towards him before she stopped. "Something's wrong."

Shanks' smile quirked, but the wry edge told her that her suspicions were correct. "Good to see you again as well, my dear."

Weeks ago she might have blushed, but now she merely cocked a brow at his remark. "Good to see you, for all that it's been half an hour since you left," she said, and with enough cheek to earn herself a grin, before walking to stand behind the bar directly opposite. "And your strategic redirection could use some work."

"Yeah, you're telling me," Shanks said, but his sigh was a surprisingly heavy thing. "Here I was hoping you wouldn't notice. Or that you'd at least pretend not to, so you could give me some time to broach it." His eyes twinkled, but it lacked the full, clever mirth she'd come to expect. "My folly, maybe. Or maybe you're getting a little too perceptive for your own good."

She tried for a smile, but felt it fall short, watching him. "Maybe you're just easy to read."

"Ben tells me that every day, don't tell me you're planning to start, too?"

"Ben has a point," Makino said. "But now that you have broached it, if only in a very roundabout way, you might as well come out with it. What's wrong?"

His smile turned rueful, as though fate had dealt him a particularly unfortunate hand. "Nothing wrong, exactly."

She felt unease coil in her stomach. "That's awfully cryptic, for you."

"And here I thought I was such an enigmatic character," Shanks mused. "Can I hide nothing from those eyes of yours?"

Makino pursed her lips. "Trying to avoid the subject? You'd do well in telling me outright, or I'm not cooking you breakfast." A single brow raised in challenge, and she added glibly, "And I know what counts as breakfast aboard your ship, so you better consider your options carefully."

He looked oddly hurt. "Conditions now? Whatever happened to feeding me out of the goodness of your heart?"

"The goodness of my heart is wholly dependent on conditions, Captain," she retorted smoothly. "Now. Out with it."

Shanks shook his head, and she half-expected his next remark to be playful, when his expression turned suddenly serious. "We're setting sail soon," he said then, without further preamble, as he leaned his elbows on the bar. It fell between them like a weight, and rested there like a physical thing.

But despite her initial surprise, Makino greeted the fact with surprisingly detached acceptance. She'd suspected for some time now that it would soon be time for them to leave. In fact, she hadn't expected them to stay as long as they had in the first place, but knowing that only took the sting off — it didn't remove the pain at the prospect.

With a sigh loosed, she let the fact settle on her shoulders, and nodded once — to herself or to him, she didn't rightly know, but it hardly mattered.

"The look on your face renders my pleasantries redundant, I fear," Shanks said with a sombre smile, and she felt a dark sort of humour tug at the corner of her mouth.

"I apologise for ruining your plans, Captain. Should we start over? I'll be more surprised this time." But there was no malice in her tone, and his eyes softened at the sound.

"You are a strange woman," he told her, shaking his head, but there was fondness in the remark, a near-palpable thing.

She shrugged. "You're not the first to tell me that." Then, her hard smile dropping, "I knew this was coming, Captain. You did warn me, if you remember. Several times."

"And you disregarded them all," he said.

"And I don't regret that," she countered, and meant it. She'd had her reservations and wasn't going to pretend otherwise, or that she hadn't very nearly made a different choice. But regardless of the life that lay ahead of her now, she couldn't make herself regret her decision. To her death, Emiko had not regretted hers, and watching Shanks now, Makino was beginning to understand why.

A comfortable silence eased into the air between them, laden with innumerable things, but comfortable regardless. Even in the odd lulls of his cheerful nature, his presence had the ability to fill a room to the brim, and she wondered suddenly how _quiet_  it would be when he left. She knew well how empty her tavern felt in the absence of the Red-Hair Pirates, as though now that it knew their particular brand of noise and revelry, nothing else could measure up. And until now, there'd always been the expectation that they would return, as though the room held its breath in anticipation. When they left for good, would the quiet she'd cherished for so long still be that, or would it drive her mad?

"It's not for a few more hours yet," Shanks said then, as though having read her thoughts.

Makino nodded, although the sudden weight of the word _hours_ dropped like a stone in her gut. She'd expected maybe a day or two with him at least, but faced with the prospect of less than a whole day, she found herself suddenly at a loss, and her earlier, detached acceptance fled on fast feet, leaving something acutely restless in its wake.

Her hands itched to clean something, the tabletop, the glasses — anything to keep herself occupied, and from letting her thoughts wander, beyond their departure and to the future that loomed ahead, with all its numberless years.

Abruptly, she realised she wasn't ready to say goodbye yet.

"Will you be coming back?"

He would have known the question was coming before he even set foot inside her tavern, and the sigh that left him only served to underline the fact. And for all that Shanks had to have realised that she'd expected they would soon be setting sail again, they hadn't broached the subject of a possible return. Would this be for good? Or would it just be another voyage, from which he would come back with more tall tales to tell and scars to show?

There was an extended beat where he regarded her from across the counter, gaze holding hers and several seas' worth of distance, and too deep in thought to actually see her. But then, abruptly, there was a smile tugging at his mouth, pulling it into a familiar grin, and as though by magic, the tension left his stance and the guilt vanished from his eyes so fast it might never have been there to begin with.

"Yeah," he said then, and for all her calm courage and attempted detachment, the relief she felt was so staggering in its sincerity, Makino almost felt the need to sit down.

She didn't quite manage to make her smile seem effortless, but couldn't be bothered to care. Let him see that he'd be missed, and fiercely. She wasn't going to pretend. "Then I'll be awaiting tales of new adventures."

Shanks grinned. "Tall tales, or just regular ones?"

Her smile was effortless this time, and full of earnest cheek. His own influence, Makino suspected. "Tall ones, please. I'll get the actual events from Ben when you've got your back turned."

The sigh she got for that was wonderfully dramatic. "Sometimes I think you like him more than me," Shanks muttered, tone mildly accusing, and she laughed.

"Jealous, Captain? I didn't think you were the type."

"I can be a great many things if I put my mind to it," he quipped. Then, his look darkening with something keenly intimate, "As I believe I've demonstrated pretty thoroughly. And creatively."

"Hmm, yes. Ben said something along those lines, too." She matched his look with one of her own. "Although I doubt he was referring to _that."_

Shanks threw his head back with a laugh, and for a moment Makino forgot their original topic of conversation, distracted by the warm atmosphere and good-humoured banter that came so easily with this man.

Fiddling absently with the rag in her hands, the smile playing on her lips was genuine, although the thoughts lurking at the back of her mind were enough to wipe it off. And as though his thoughts had followed the same path, "You know it won't always be like this?" Shanks asked.

She'd long since stopped feeling surprise that he could read her so well. "Yeah," she said, quietly. She'd figured as much, that although they would be coming back this time, next time could be different — _would_ be different, no doubt, if he was bringing it up now. One day they'd set sail for good, and they wouldn't come back.

The momentary relief of his good humour vanished at the thought, and she felt her spirits sinking. She shouldn't have let her detachment go so quickly.

"Garp has been making his visits more frequent," Shanks continued. "Soon we won't be able to keep up with the news from Headquarters, and he'll catch us. And that won't be pretty. For either of us."

She nodded, almost mechanically. His words felt empty, somehow. Excuses. Valid ones, maybe, but excuses regardless. She knew the real reason, and he knew that she was well aware, but still it hung between them, untouched.

"I am sorry."

A rough-palmed hand closed around hers where it gripped the dish-rag atop the counter, and she started. Lifting her gaze, she met his own, and there was genuine apology in his eyes.

Makino sighed, but a small smile pulled at her mouth. "Sorry for what, Captain? For being a pirate? Don't coddle me, please. I've known this was coming. You're no farmer's son."

He regarded her closely, although he didn't loosen his grip on her hand. "Do you sometimes wish I was?"

She didn't even need to think about that. "Never."

His answering smile was wry. "You sure about that? A farmer's son wouldn't leave you."

"A farmer's son wouldn't have given me half the adventures you have," she countered. Twisting her hand, she wound her fingers through his, her own so small he could easily tuck her closed fist into the heart of his palm and wrap his fingers around it, but when she gave them a squeeze it was far from a gentle reminder. "I wouldn't have it any other way. I've carried no disillusions that you'd stay with me in this backwater town of mine."

Shanks was silent for a moment, before asking, "Would you come with me?"

Makino blinked, momentarily taken aback by the question. "Please don't joke about—"

"I'm perfectly serious."

And as she took in the set of his brows, she found that he was, in fact, entirely serious.

Her heart leaped in her chest, and she gaped a little, suddenly unsure of how to respond. And so staggering was her surprise, that when she finally managed to locate her voice, what fell from her lips wasn't the familiar title, but something else entirely.

"Shanks—"

"There's room on the ship," he said then, the earnestness of the offer punctuated by the fact that he wasn't even pointing out that she'd let his name slip. "It would be my bunk, but it's big enough for two. And the guys wouldn't mind. As far as they're concerned you're already part of the crew. All that's missing is for you to join us."

Makino didn't know what to say to that. She honestly hadn't considered it, in all their time together. She'd known he would be leaving, and though a closet-adventurer at heart, she'd never once entertained the idea of actually going with him — or that he'd ask her, for that matter.

"Speechless, my dear? It's good to know I've still got it."

She shook her head, scrambling to collect herself, and her thoughts. "I—"

When she couldn't seem to muster a reply, Shanks' smile softened. "What do you say, my girl?" he asked, and she felt his grip on her hand tighten. "Are you up for a real adventure?"

She considered her hand in his; the rough fingers tucked against her own, scars and sword-callouses over her gentler ones, wrought from her small, land-bound labours.

"You know my answer already, I think," she said at length, lifting her eyes back to his. "I'm a barmaid, and this is my life. The sea is your home. I'm land-born, and I'd be a burden. Maybe not at once, but one day I would be." She was quiet a moment, before adding, "And something tells me your course won't be the safest."

She wasn't going to kid herself — there was something undeniably dangerous about the man sitting across from her, hidden beneath his easy smiles and honest laughter. Ben had let slip that he'd been a swabbie on the ship of the Pirate King, and had it been anyone else telling her, Makino would have laughed at the tall tale. But it was Ben, and so she'd believed it beyond a shadow of a doubt, and with all that it implied.

She hadn't mentioned it to Shanks. Like the scars, it was a subject best left alone, at least where they stood now. Perhaps one day they would talk about them, when she wasn't quite so young and impressionable, and he not so burdened. Or maybe there'd be a day where he would share his burdens with her, yielding some of himself to her to bear, the way he so often invited her to do. Because under the smiles and the laughter sat the tension of a man who knew more about the world than was healthy. It was another reason she knew in her heart she couldn't leave her home and go with him now. Whatever fate had planned for him, it wasn't for her. And she refused to be a liability.

"It's not a pirate's life for me, I'm afraid," Makino said, and the words carried a finality to them that left no room for argument.

His smile was guilty, but undeniably sad, and she tried for a smile of her own to lighten the mood, but it only succeeded in making her feel worse. It wasn't that she didn't want to go with him. In fact, part of her wanted nothing more than to leave everything behind in favour of adventure and the open sea — and _him,_ more than anything. It would be ten times more thrilling than any book she'd ever read, that was for sure, and she'd be with him. There'd be no more departures and long, lonely days spent waiting for him to come back.

But something held her back from accepting the offer. She couldn't put her finger on what it was, or what it meant, but something told her she still had something left to do in Fuschia. It couldn't be a pirate's life for her now. "At least not yet."

He looked up at that, brows raised, and Makino's smile came without effort now. "You've told Luffy time and time again that he's too young to join you, and you've given him ten years, but he won't say yes to that. He'll form his own crew."

Shanks' grin stretched, and she could see realisation as it dawned on him now, where she was headed. His voice was unashamedly hopeful when he asked, "Yeah?"

Her own smile was a cunning curve, but softened by the promise that sat in the words when she offered them. "That means there'll be a spot open on your ship." His face lit up visibly, and her grin widened. "Give me ten years," she said. "And when your duties to the world of pirates is done, and mine in this backwater town, then maybe," she inhaled deeply, "I'll say yes."

"I'll hold you to that," Shanks said without a second's hesitation, his voice rough, and when she nodded he tugged her forward, startling a laughing yelp from her as she braced herself on the counter. One hand slipping around the back of her neck, he tilted her head into the kiss, the relief in it too bright for it to be chaste, and the dip of his tongue against hers dragged a low sound of contentment into the quiet.

The edge of the counter digging into her stomach, she pushed away the discomfort, because he was leaving soon, and she'd claim whatever part of him she could have, in the time they had left. She'd already given him her heart, and there was only one path left for her to take and that was forward, with or without him. For now, that was her role — that would be her adventure.

Drawing back, she caught her breath with a laugh, before she made to move around the counter, her hand still cradled in his, to tug him out of his seat. "Come on."

At his raised brows, her eyes gleamed, and when she gave another tug, Shanks followed, slipping out of his chair to join her. "I have you for a few more hours yet," she told him. "I intend to make the most of it."

"Oh yeah?" He smoothed his thumb across her cheek, his grin curving as his voice dropped, "What did you have in mind?"

Pulling him forward, he stumbled against her, laughing when she wound her arms around his neck, and, "You," she said simply, before she kissed him, a bolder gesture than she would have once thought herself capable, and she felt his delight at the fact in his response — the fierce kiss that stole her breath and her laughter both, when he suddenly hoisted her off the floor, and she had to scramble to catch herself against his shoulders.

And when he made to mount the stairs, the cheeky assurance of steady sea-legs and "I could carry you in my sleep" _,_ kissed against her mouth when she let slip a worry that he would drop her, Makino spared only half a thought to the fact that it wasn't the morning she'd expected, when she'd woken with the sun to the sound of his snores muffled against her pillow. But she'd take it, regardless. She'd never asked for much, and even now she wouldn't, but she'd take what she did have, when she had it within reach.

And on the edge of her subconscious sat a thought — a minuscule chance that she grasped now with both hands, and every ounce of conviction she possessed. Because there was a spot on his ship reserved for her, for a time when his duties were done and she was ready to leave her home for the open sea. And as she clutched at his shirt with all the dignity of the tavern wench she was to the marrow of her bones, Makino wondered not for the first time what she'd gotten herself into.

Because knowing him, he would hold her to her promise.

 

—

 

The slight awkwardness she'd felt at their first time didn't prevail, although she wondered now why she'd ever thought it would, knowing the ease he'd inspired in so many other aspects of her life.

And that intimacy should be any different might have been a concern of hers once, but like everything else, it didn't take them long to work their way past the fleeting obstacles of limbs bumping and lingering discomforts, finding between the laughter and the pleasure the small, hidden things that would soon give way to ease. The connection of certain noises to certain touches, and the acute knowledge of what could nudge the other over the edge, sought and claimed over the course of several attempts, some short and hurried, others longer, languid affairs, but all spurred by the eager thrill of new discovery and desire that made it hard for hands to stray far from each other.

And if practice didn't exactly make perfect, it made something very close to it, as she came to learn the things he liked — little, intimate details, like where to touch to steal his laughter from his breath or hook a groan deep in his throat, and that he preferred her on top but was eager to try anything at least once. He liked having his hands free to touch her, and took his time doing it, and so she learned to take her time with him in turn; learned how her small, tentative touches could be used in her favour, and his.

And she learned the things she liked, some discoveries surprising (her own hands bound, and having him behind her; a quiet command slipped along the shell of her ear), but his eagerness to exploit them all entirely expected. And the shape of his smile against her would be a particular favourite memory to revisit, months and years down the line.

A few hours to themselves, they were back where they'd first started, in her apartments above the bar, although this time there was no hesitation on her part. Instead there was the acute knowledge of their imminent departure, and her earlier promise, of making the most of it.

Stumbling across the threshold to her bedroom, she caught the laughing oath that slipped from his mouth, and, "So much for sea legs," Makino murmured, with a nip at his lower lip.

"We're not at sea," Shanks offered back, grinning. "If we were, you'd be impressed."

She hummed, watching him from her perch, his hands bracing her against him and her legs cinched tight around his waist. The grin she got held far too much mischief for a man nearing thirty, but she kept from pointing it out, choosing instead to brush her fingertips over the scars across his eye, which slipped closed at her ministrations. Covering it with the palm of her hand, she marvelled slightly at how much younger he looked without them.

But it looked wrong, somehow, and so she drew her hand away. In the bright morning glow of her bedroom, the markings on his face were thrown into stark contrast against his skin, and she tilted her head as she traced a fingertip along one of the jagged lines.

She'd never known him without the scars — who he'd been, and what he'd been like. He'd told her she probably wouldn't have liked him at twenty, brash and with too much anger and not enough to spend it on. And she thought now, of the Pirate King's execution, and the cabin-boy who'd set out to form his own crew. And she knew nothing of what had transpired between then and the day he'd shown up in her bar, quick to smile and even quicker to laugh, and no anger in sight, as far as she could see.

The curiosity would never fully go away, Makino knew, but didn't pry now, and when he nudged his nose against hers, she figured that it didn't matter. One day, he'd tell her, and she'd either be horrified at the tale or give him a slap for his recklessness, because knowing him it could be either of the two. But for now it didn't matter which it was, because in a few hours his crew would raise anchor and set sail, and there was no telling when she'd see him again. All she knew was that she would, and she'd hold him to that. This time, he'd be coming back.

But next time, she thought, and knew with a slowly sinking certainty, they would be leaving for good.

"Bed?" came the murmur then, the word kissed against her palm, and when she caught his gaze, she found a familiar gleam in it.

"Did you have something else in mind?" she laughed, as he moved towards the mattress, although he didn't put her down.

Shanks seemed to take a moment to consider her, and she wondered what he was thinking. And she wasn't surprised at the soft thrill that followed the thought, curling with tempting warmth low in her stomach and leaving her slightly dizzy. He'd told her he was amenable to a lot of things, but Makino found the truth to be her own now, watching him, his shirt hanging off his shoulders and his hair curling against his jaw. It was a far cry from the shy girl who'd once read her raunchiest novels through the protective cover of her fingers, and Suzume would have been proud to hear it, Makino thought.

He seemed to come to a decision then, and, "Next time," he said, the promise offered with a firm kiss, before he dropped her on the mattress, and her shriek leaped, laughing into the morning. And although teasingly offered, it was enough, invoking a time, months ago now, when he'd wrapped his cloak around her shoulders and lamented his forgetfulness. The only difference was that there was no doubt in her mind now, of the reason he kept coming back.

Her bed was undeniably more comfortable than the floor of her bar, and there were no thoughts of Garp finding out or anyone walking in on them now. All she could think was how much she would miss this man — the one who'd taught her to let go, to love and to feel loved; the man bearing scars she didn't know the stories behind, but that she kissed deliberately, one by one. Because Makino knew that in the years to come, what would sustain her would be her memories.

And so that's what she did — she made memories, dog-eared bookmarks for her to return to later, and often, until the day he came back to keep his promise. There'd be no boring, unadventurous husband, she knew, following the shape she'd spent the past week learning by heart, every scar and jutting bone and length of corded muscle, as she decided that if she would have any husband at all, it would be him.

And there'd be no brood of children for Garp to babysit and scare into obedience, because there was a place reserved for her on a ship. A ship that would sail for the Grand Line and back, and when the day came for her to take her place on it she would have nothing holding her back. Fuschia would be just another port, and her tavern—her home—would be the man returning to get her.

Practice had _almost_ made perfect. Or as perfect as it got, anyway, bursts of laughter breaking the lulls, softening fumbling touches and ill-timed thrusts, and kisses too sloppy for grace. The grip of his hands was harder than she'd come to know it, and all too telling of the thoughts behind it, and when it was over Shanks tugged her close, wrapping his arms around her and tucking her against his chest, an embrace she felt in her bones, and that had stubborn tears escaping despite her attempts at keeping them back.

Makino only tightened her hold on him in turn, lifting her legs up as she curled herself against him, no mind to offer her empty bar or her waiting customers as she pressed her ear to his heart. In a few hours, his crew would set sail, and she would remain, wiping her tables and mopping her floors.

And if waiting was a fool's game then she was a willing fool, because that's what she'd be doing, until the day he came back, to hold her to her word.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I have an ongoing love-affair with writing AUs for this series, and if you're so inclined, the fic [Scylla](https://archiveofourown.org/works/10945830) picks up from this chapter, with the premise that Makino accepted Shanks' offer to join him.


	12. a missing page

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's all fun and games until someone loses an arm.

The day had been going _so well._

Clutching her skirt to keep from tripping, she pushed herself to a sprint, the wind whipping about her face dragging her hair loose of her kerchief. Her heart sat, lodged firmly at the base her throat, and she almost choked on her own air as she pushed herself to run faster.

She should have seen it coming — should have suspected that something would happen, after the incident at the bar all those weeks ago. It wasn't often bandits came down from the hills, but with the tavern full of pirates she hadn't thought much about it; hadn't considered the possible consequences when they left. And for all of Shanks' attempt at diplomacy, she knew full well that if things were to have escalated to something serious, he wouldn't have taken it quite so lightly. But like he'd said — it hadn't been more than spilled _sake._

So when the same bandits had showed up that morning, drunk off cheap liquor and notions of imagined superiority, Makino had been more than prepared to follow his example, in order to keep the peace. With the Red-Hair Pirates gone she could do little else, after all; at least not without endangering herself and Luffy both.

Of course — she should have realised Luffy wouldn't see it that way.

The mayor's cottage was right ahead of her now, and she sprinted the last few steps. Out of breath and with her heart hammering against her ribcage hard enough to make her want to throw up, she ripped the door open, not even bothering to knock to announce her arrival, as was proper.

"Chief!" She was so out of breath she couldn't muster another word, but she forced them out despite the fact that she felt like choking on the syllables. "Something's happened!"

Woop Slap blinked, taken aback by her brash entrance, but then she couldn't blame him — she'd never even raised her voice in his presence. "Makino? What's all this fuss, so early in the morning?"

"Luffy—" She inhaled, feeling her lungs constrict, before letting it out, along with the words, "The bandits took Luffy!"

" _What?!_ "

He nearly dropped his mug in surprise, eyes wide in his odd face, and Makino leaned against the door, still catching her breath. He looked like he was halfway between believing her and chalking it up to something out of her imagination — in a place as quiet as Fuschia, nothing ever really happened, beyond the usual, day-to-day business of a port-side village. That first, tumultuous arrival of the Red-Hair Pirates had been the only event of note in _years._

But knowing Luffy's easily ignited temper and penchant for rooting trouble even out of a clear blue day, Woop Slap recovered quickly, and Makino felt a spark of hope as he scrambled to his feet. When he passed her in the doorway, she followed. "Where, my girl?"

"Outside the bar," she said, worry gnawing at her gut. She didn't know what had transpired in the time she'd been gone, but she prayed they hadn't hurt him — she didn't know what she'd do if anything happened to him.

She followed the gnarled little mayor down the street in the direction she'd come from, and wondered what he planned to do. To be honest, she hadn't really considered what she'd done, running to him, but he was the only one she knew with enough sense and righteousness to do _something_. Thinking back to how the rest of the village had reacted the day Shanks' crew had first docked, she doubted they'd lift a finger now, with hostile bandits causing trouble.

Part of her wished desperately that Garp hadn't left for Headquarters so soon, but she shoved the thought away as she followed Woop Slap towards the bar. There was no use dwelling on it; not with the situation being what it was. They'd find out what the bandits wanted, and try to get Luffy back unscathed.

They heard the voices long before they'd even rounded the corner, and when they did, the small gathering of criminals gathered outside her bar made Makino suddenly furious — an anger not unlike the one she'd felt at the crew of pirates who'd showed up at Party's on her very first day — but when her eyes landed on the small, writhing shape held to the ground by the heel of a heavy boot, the anger was doused by a potent dose of cold fear, preventing her from doing something stupid, like calling out.

She didn't have a clue as to how to handle the situation, but thankfully, Woop Slap was one step ahead of her. "Let the boy go!" he bellowed, voice cleaving through the air with surprising command, and alerting the men gathered around their leader. Several heads turned their way, and Makino suppressed a grimace at the suggestive leers directed her way in particular.

"Please," Woop Slap added, although she doubted it would do much good, pleading with men like that.

Then he surprised her by falling to his knees before them. "I don't know what the boy did, and I don't want to argue with you, but I'm willing to pay," he said, voice clear and level despite the fact that she could see him shaking like a leaf. She felt a surge of sudden sympathy, although her own heels seemed to have been rooted to the dirt. "So please let him go!"

Luffy echoed her surprise verbally. "Chief!"

The leader of the group seemed amused by the display, but there was little of any genuine humour in his expression. Instead it was a hard, cruel thing, and his sneer a progeny of both as he said, "Like you'd expect, it's the elders that know proper conduct." Makino's heart sank at his words, because she could tell by his tone what was coming, "But I'm afraid it's too late, old man. You can't save the brat," he continued, anger pulling at his features now. "He made his mistake, pissing me off."

A shadow of that deep-seated cruelty seemed to pass over his face, and before Makino could react he'd slammed the heel of his boot into Luffy's back. "And I hate it when weak little shits insult me!"

"It's your fault!" Luffy snapped back, entirely undaunted by the fact that he was being forcibly held down, and Makino wished desperately that he wouldn't make the situation worse, but before she could call out for him to stop talking, "You wild baboon!" he shrieked.

The leader growled under his breath, "Okay, that's it." Makino could only look on helplessly as he drew his sword. "I'm not gonna sell you, after all — I'll kill you instead. It'll shut you up, at least."

"Luffy!" she called, before she could stop herself. Thoughts racing, she scrambled for something to do. If she made a run for it, could she reach him in time? But even if she managed to grab him, what would she do — bolt for the hills and hope she shook them off somehow, carrying a six-year-old?

The familiar presence washed over her then, before the sound of his voice reached her ears, and her breath caught in her throat with the sudden warmth at her back; the weight of his palm between her shoulder blades dragging her thoughts back.

"I was wondering why there was no one to welcome us at the docks," came his voice, gently musing, as Shanks slid his hand up to grip her shoulder in a reassuring squeeze, and relief pushed up her throat with her surprise—

"Captain!"

He flashed her a grin, eyes catching hers for the span of a breath, before he'd turned his attention back to the spectacle unfolding in front of them. She felt his hand, the warmth of it seeping through the fabric of her shirt, before he took a step past her, angling himself until she was shielded completely.

It was the smallest of gestures, but profound in its simplicity, and the implication enough to drag the air from her lungs. The afternoon sun danced off his hair and cloak, and his broad back threw her completely in shadow. Ben came to stand on her left, Yasopp on her right, effectively and discreetly caging her in.

"You're the bandits from the other day," Shanks said then, amicably, as though finding nothing at all amiss with the situation. Makino relaxed a little, finding a strange comfort in the weight of his presence, and the knowledge that if anyone knew the best course of action when dealing with men like those before her, it would be Shanks. Or at least she hoped so, anyway. That ever-cheerful attitude sometimes toed the border between reassuring and unnerving, and she didn't know which of the two she was feeling right now. A little of both, most likely.

"Luffy, what's wrong?" he asked then, laughter in his voice. "Isn't your punch as strong as a pistol?" He seemed genuinely humoured, and Makino tried not to let her eyes linger on the bandit's sword, still unsheathed and angled towards the boy.

It was hard getting a good look from her vantage point, but she saw Luffy squirm, clearly agitated, although she couldn't blame him. She had no idea what Shanks' plan was. "Shut up!"

The bandit leader turned a lazy eye on Shanks. "Pirate," he drawled. "Why are you still here? Planning on cleaning up the whole town this time?" His mouth quirked, humoured by his own joke, and the smug tone sent a flutter of uncharacteristic anger leaping against her ribcage. "I suggest you get going," he said, the words reeking of self-assurance.

Shanks didn't even seem to have heard him, and was making his way towards the group at a languid pace. The reprieve of his shadow felt palpable, leaving her suddenly reeling, and —  _oh, that can't be normal_. She felt lightheaded, as though she'd been on the verge of passing out.

Beside her, Ben uncrossed his arms, but didn't reach towards her, although the gesture itself was assurance enough, and Makino couldn't for the life of her understand why it would be necessary. Was he expecting her to topple?

The bandit leader shifted his weight, as though a threat had been received. "If you get any closer I might have to open fire," he warned, before an ugly grin split his face. "Coward."

If possible, Shanks seemed even less perturbed than before, but before Makino could take another breath there was a pistol at his temple, and her heart careened into her throat.

The bandit who'd drawn the weapon laughed. "Didn't you hear? He told you not to get any closer! D'ya want to get shot or something?" Mirth punctuating his words, it rippled through the rest of the group; a perverse mockery of the genuine good humour she'd come to expect from the crew around her, who were all observing their captain with expressions that didn't yield so much as a sliver of concern. Makino didn't know whether to feel assured by their confidence, or if she wanted to scream, gaze still locked on the pistol.

Shanks heaved a sigh, as though presented with a chore that needed doing. "Ah, well. Since you pulled your gun," he began, "I guess we'll have to fight."

The bandit's brows drew together. The laughter had cut off. "Eh?"

Shanks turned his head towards the barrel of the gun, an almost lazy incline. "I said," he emphasised, as though speaking to someone exceedingly slow-witted, "don't draw your weapon just to scare people."

The gunshot rang out across the street before she'd had the change to so much as blink, and her hands flew to her mouth as a strangled sound forced its way up her throat. But it was the bandit who fell forward, slamming into the hard-packed dirt; the sound punctuated by his pistol clattering down beside him. Shanks hadn't even flinched, and it took her a moment to put the pieces together, to understand what had happened.

Lucky didn't pause in his chewing, gun in one hand and a piece of meat in the other, and if Makino hadn't been so busy trying to remember how to breathe, she thought she might have found the tableau morbidly amusing.

A chorus of angry voices tore through the group now in lieu of their earlier mockery, and Makino could only watch in amazement as several of Shanks' crew stepped past her to join him. Ben gave her a nod as he followed, stopping next to Lucky and blocking most of her view of the bandits.

"Dirty?" he spoke up then, to an accusation thrown their way. "Don't make us laugh. Do we look like saints to you?"

Shanks smiled at that; she caught the sharp curve of his mouth from where he'd angled his head slightly. "The people in front of you are pirates," Ben continued, as he stepped up to the very front.

One of the bandits growled. "Shaddup! This ain't none of yer business!"

Shanks barely seemed to have heard him. "Listen up, bandits, and listen well," he continued, and there was something in his tone that had the hairs on Makino's neck stand up. "You can throw food or _sake_ at me, or even spit at me, and I'll laugh it off. I'm fun that way. So have at it." He shrugged his shoulders, as though to emphasise his point. "But," he snapped suddenly, startling her and the bandits both, "I don't care what your motivations are, or your reasons — I won't forgive anyone who lays a hand on my friends."

Her heart caught with her breath, and she could only stare in amazement at the back of the cloaked figure standing at the head of the group of pirates boxing her in. She'd never witnessed this side of him before — the captain and leader she knew existed beneath all the smiles and the laughter, and the easy-going nature that had no patience for cynicism or petty grudges.

It was like a veil had been lifted, revealing something she'd only seen suggestions of before, in some of his gestures; the weight of his gaze sometimes, and his cunning. And it was both fascinating and terrifying to behold, because behind his words was a surge of some near-tangible thing, making her skin prickle, and her next breath felt heavy, like it took effort to draw it into her lungs.

A hand closed around her elbow, steadying her, but she couldn't tell who it belonged to — it was suddenly hard to think past the sound of her own blood thundering in her ears, and the pressure caging her chest in, like a vice around her ribs.

"Easy," a voice said. It sounded like Yasopp. "Root your heels in the ground, and breathe."

She did — it was an effort she didn't expect, but with her next breath her vision cleared a bit, bringing her back, and the pressure in her ears yielded with an audible _pop._

The leader of the bandits burst into incredulous laughter. "You won't _forgive_ me?" he spat. "You, a bunch of pirates who float around on your ship all day — you think you can challenge _us_?"

The implication made her bristle, some strangely protective feeling pushing up under her skin, and she caught a smile from Lucky out of the corner of her eye, but didn't blush. Instead she squared her shoulders, a silent defiance. Useless, maybe, but it was what she had, and she'd offer it in defence of the crew that was hers, as much as she was theirs.

"We will _destroy_ you _,_ " the leader declared then, to a rousing wave of agreement from his lackeys as they drew their weapons.

To Makino's surprise, it was Ben who stepped forward, with what looked to be bored detachment. He was surveying the bandits, much the same way Makino had once seen him observe the pot in a particularly slow game of cards, as though he was gauging whether or not he actually had the patience to bother with another round. "Let me handle this, Boss," he said to Shanks. "I'll be enough."

Coming from anyone else, she would have called the declaration foolhardy, but her eyes grew wide as she watched Ben make quick work of the bandits charging towards him, felling one by one with minimal effort. Shifting his weight saw two toppling who'd made to reach for him, and the third he grabbed by the back of his shirt, sending him slamming into the nearest wall, and with enough force to knock him out cold. The fourth and fifth hesitated a second, both sparing a furtive glance to the heap of bodies, before even they made their move, and were left sprawling beside their fallen comrades. Ben hadn't even taken the safety off his weapon. 

She realised belatedly that she was gaping. She'd known he was Shanks' first mate for a reason, but she'd assumed the reason was a cunning and strategic mind, and because he was the most responsible of the lot — not to mention, Shanks' closest friend. Her mistake, then, for not having realised he was far more dangerous than his quiet nature suggested.

Finished with the bandits, Ben lit himself another cigarette, aiming his gun calmly as he regarded the blustering leader, who still had Luffy trapped under his boot. "Don't give yourselves too much credit," he drawled, a small smirk alighting, lifting his hardened features. "If you really want to fight us, I suggest getting a fleet of marines to back you up."

Now vastly outnumbered, Makino wondered what the bandit would do. Ben's display alone should have been incentive enough to yield and beg forgiveness, but somehow, she doubted it would be that easy. Unease still coiled within her, watching Luffy.

The bandit leader was gaping. "But— the brat messed with us first!" came the exclamation, like an errant child having been caught in a scuffle.

Shanks shrugged. "Doesn't matter. And even if he did, there's a reward on _your_ head." He let the threat hang in the air, and Makino resisted the startling urge to smile.

But she should have known he wouldn't surrender so easily. And with an exaggerated flourish to distract from his intentions, he'd fished something from his pocket before any of them had a chance to stop him, no more than a second offered before he'd chucked it to the ground.

The pirates were quick on the uptake though, and before Makino could so much as shield her eyes from the blast there were two large shapes in front of her, shielding her before the smoke was even released.

"Smoke bomb!" came the belated shout, and she squeezed her eyes shut, and tried not to breathe. There was a flurry of movement around her, and the rising chorus of multiple voices, and when she finally opened her eyes the two pirates who'd stepped in front of her had turned to check if she was alright. She nodded absently at their questions, straining to see past their towering shapes towards the place where the bandit leader had been—

"Luffy!"

It was Shanks' incredulous shout that drew her attention from the open space, just in time to watch him exclaim, "BAH, we got careless! They took Luffy!" Then to Ben, " _What do we do?!"_

The entirely uncharacteristic display of unrestrained _panic_ left her blinking, but the pirates in front of her only sighed, as though the occurrence was far from uncommon.

The shake of Ben's head held several years in it. "This guy..." But turning to Makino, "You okay?" he asked, the weight of his brow deepening slightly as he took her in. She wondered how she must look; her eyes were still stinging from the smoke.

She nodded, but before she could open her mouth to ask — "Don't worry, we'll find the kid," Ben told her, before he strode past, all calm grace and business-as-usual as he let slip an order to spread out that had the rest of the crew scattering in several directions.

Makino watched him go, suddenly unsure of what to do with herself. But before she could gather her wits completely, Shanks was in front of her, a hand tilting her chin and concern pulling his brows in a downward slant. "Are you hurt?"

His gaze roamed her face, and she felt the gentle pressure of his fingertips against her temple. Her earlier dizziness had mostly relented, but she felt the afterthought of it, like a curiously persistent hangover, and, "Sorry," Shanks said then, the quick smile kin to sheepish, as though it was somehow his fault.

She didn't know why he was apologising, or for what, but there were more important things to consider. "I'm fine," she said, rubbing at her eyes. "But Luffy—"

The corner of his mouth lifted in a familiar smile, warming his expression and allowing some of the hard worry to yield. "He'll be alright," he told her. "He can't have gotten far. One of the perks of this being such a small port — there aren't that many places to run."

She had no response to offer that, but Shanks didn't seem to be waiting for one, and catching her gaze, "Go wait in the bar in the meantime?" he asked, and from his tone, she had the distinct impression it was more for his own peace of mind than hers. "Knowing the kid, he'll be hungry after the day's events," he added, and didn't put into words what she could read, clear in his gaze — a desire for her to be safe, more than anything else.

But, "Shanks—"

Before his name was even fully off her tongue, he'd taken a step closer, and it wasn't an embrace but as good as one, what with his full length pressed against hers, and, "I've missed the sound of you saying my name," he murmured, the words pressed against her hair. Makino resisted the startled urge to wrap her arms around him.

"We'll have a better reunion later," he said then, the promise sealed with a kiss to her temple, almost too quick to catch.

Then he was striding past her, and with a nod at Woop Slap, who looked too shaken to glare back, he made to follow Ben. "We'll check the docks to see if he's taken a boat," Makino heard him say, before they were both walking away, the urgency in their steps betraying their outward calm.

She drew a breath, the slight stutter making it catch in her throat, and she started slightly when Woop Slap stepped up beside her. "I don't like the look of this," he muttered, hard-wrought features furrowed in a deep frown. Makino shook her head, gaze lingering on the street stretching down towards the wharf. She felt inclined to agree.

Brushing shaking hands over her skirt, she made her way back inside the bar, determined to wrangle her worry into something manageable. She'd make a meal — something with meat, for Luffy when they brought him back. Because they would, she didn't doubt that — wouldn't doubt it, for even a moment. And so with the heart in her throat slowly easing itself back down, she set about keeping her hands busy, distracting her mind and anchoring drifting thoughts in familiar routines and preparations.

It was better than doing nothing, after all.

 

—

 

In the end, her food went untouched.

Shaking fingers clenching against her sides, Makino leaned her weight against the stacked crates, sliding down until she was seated on the rough planking. The pressing silence draped along with the mist, a white spider's web of quiet across the wharf, the weight of it seeming to grate against her ears, unbroken but for the soft kiss of the water against the ship's hull.

Squeezing her eyes shut, she dragged a breath through her nose, the night chill a sharp jab between her ribs, but the shuddering exhale that followed allowed her to sink against the planks. Tucked away in the shadow of the crates, she felt strangely comforted by the offered sanctuary — a feeling she latched onto with vigour now, in light of the day's events.

She'd just finished preparing the food, a three-times polished glass worried between her fingers, when the doors to the bar had been thrown open, admitting one of Shanks' cabin-boys. And he'd barely taken a step inside before the news had tumbled off his tongue, a starved-for-breath reiteration of events that had been so hurried it had taken a second for her to piece the words together into a semblance of meaning, and then Makino had almost dropped the glass as the reality of what he was telling her had settled, and with about as much mercy as a white-knuckled punch.

Because whatever she'd feared would happen during their search for Luffy, a grapple with the local sea king had not been on the list.

She'd pushed past him before he'd even gotten to the part where Shanks had had his arm torn off — she hadn't needed to hear more, at the time. His urgency had been enough to tell her that whatever had transpired, it wasn't good — the fact that he'd come with the explicit purpose to fetch _her_ was something she hadn't wanted to consider. It had felt too final, somehow; the on-your-deathbed sort of finality she'd read about one too many times, and she hadn't even stopped to let him catch up as she'd set off at a dead sprint towards the port.

When she'd arrived, the wharf had been a chaotic convergence of pirates and villagers, two worlds colliding, for once without effort, and if she hadn't already known that something had gone horribly _wrong_ , the collective force of their combined worry would have done the trick.

She'd located Luffy amidst the tumult of people, and pushed her way past them until she'd reached him. He'd been shivering, clothes sopping wet with seawater and his small back bent under a weight she hadn't understood, his expression vacant and red-rimmed eyes starting into nothing. And curled in on himself, she'd been too busy trying to uncoil the rigid vice of his arms around his knees to pay attention to what was going on around them, until it finally hit her, between one breath and the next.

The smell came first.

Then, the sight of the blood.

It had covered the planks, a grotesque vista plucked right out of one of her more gory novels. It was like a slaughter-ship had stopped to unload, the pungent smell like a physical onslaught, and she'd almost emptied her stomach at the sight.

She hadn't even had the chance to ask the _whats_ and the _whys_ when she'd noticed that Luffy was covered in it, the colour a stark truth against the white of his shirt. And without so much as a scratch on him, it could only mean one thing — and there was no way Luffy would have shed tears for the _bandit_.

The heels of her palms pressed to her eyes, Makino inhaled through her nose, willing the images away before she did throw up. Ben had been at her shoulder then, the grip of his hand an anchor to her panic, telling her that Doc had stopped the bleeding but that Shanks had lost consciousness when they'd brought him ashore, spouting jokes until his eyes had rolled back into his head — the latter added for her benefit, Makino suspected, and she'd latched onto that detail, because if he could joke about it, it meant it wasn't too bad. It meant it wasn't fatal _._

But for all her attempts at reassuring herself, she knew that losing an arm to the jaws of a sea king was, in fact, very bad. And very fatal.

She'd remained at the wharf after that, with the exception of taking Luffy back to Party's. But after cleaning him up and putting him to bed, along with the assurance that she'd bring back news, she'd gone back down to the port. Lucky had taken her to the galley when the sun had dipped below the horizon, and when Yasopp had pushed a drink into her hands Makino had knocked it back without a second thought. And then another, until she'd no longer felt like she might burst into tears.

Head buzzing, she'd tucked her legs up on one of the long benches, allowing Yasopp to distract her with a story as she'd fought to keep her thoughts from drifting, beyond the galley towards where Doc was working. And it wasn't just that Shanks' absence was felt, but when she'd tried to seek him out, the familiar shape of his presence that she'd learned to recognise from a distance, there'd been _nothing_ , not so much as a tremor in the air; and when Yasopp had poured her a third glass she'd tossed it back so quickly she'd almost thrown it all back up.

And despite the combined efforts of the crew to engage her in conversation, the tension inside the galley had quickly become too much, the low murmurs barely loud enough to pick out and the noise-level sitting so far below their usual volume it had made her skin itch with the _wrongness_ of it all, and before long Makino had retreated outside, under the pretence of getting some air.

Now the shadows shrouded her from sight, but peace remained an elusive feeling, although she'd long since stopped looking for it, settling instead for trying to keep her breathing even.

_Breathe. In. Out. You're fine._

"You'll catch a cold out here," a voice spoke up suddenly, and she started in her seat, eyes flying up, to the tall shadow she hadn't seen join the ones that hid her from view.

"Ben," she breathed, and she caught his smile as he stepped into the sliver of light from the moon hanging overhead. It was a wry quirk of the lips, so very unlike his usual amusement, and the implication made her heart plummet into her stomach.

"No," she croaked. "Don't tell me—"

He shook his head, cutting her off before she could put words to the fear that had kept her company all day. "He's fine," he told her, and she pushed a startled breath past her teeth, the relief enough that if she'd been standing, Makino thought she might have sat back down. "Surgery was a success, and Doc's got it under control."

"And—?"

"He'll live."

She closed her eyes, another wave of relief washing over her, the whole, terrible force of it like a riptide, dragging a noise from the back of her throat — a choked and keening sound.

Ben said nothing, but she heard him light a cigarette, the smell familiar and strangely comforting, and she welcomed it with a deep breath, hoping it might finally drive out the smell of blood that still clung to the wharf and her nose, although they'd long since scrubbed the former clean.

When she met his gaze, his expression shifted into something wryly amused, no doubt reading her questions on her face. "He's awake," he said. "Been asking for you, as it is. That's why I came to see where you'd disappeared off to." He snorted then, and the edge of his smile was a startlingly genuine thing, despite the tired shadows clinging to his features. "He's mistaken me for you twice already," he said. "I don't know if he actually thought I was you, or if he only did it to annoy me. Hard to tell with him sometimes."

Her answering laugh sounded more like a sob. "That sounds like him."

Ben nodded towards the ship, a lone sentinel by the quiet wharf, beckoning the shadows into the cradle of the hull. "You'd better get up there before he starts wooing Doc. Given that he's been working since noon, I don't think he'll be very receptive to the captain's advances, however flattering."

Pushing to her feet, Makino brushed her palms against her skirt, hoping Ben wouldn't notice how badly her hands were shaking, although by the way he averted his gaze when she straightened, she suspected he'd caught it. But he didn't reach out to touch her, or ask her if she was fine; for all his understanding, Ben wasn't the type to coddle, and Makino was suddenly, desperately glad of the fact, as she thought it might have been what finally put a crack in the composure she'd kept in an iron grip all day.

_Breathe. In. Out. You're fine._

_**He's** fine._

Their walk up the gangway was made in silence, and once she stepped onto the deck, Lucky and Yasopp were there. Upon catching sight of her, they nodded, and she attempted a smile that felt so forced she had to drop it.

Ben nodded towards where Makino knew Shanks' quarters to be. "Call us if you need us to restrain him. Doc's meds tend to make him a little frisky," he said, wholly deadpan, and despite herself, Makino felt a genuine smile replace the forced one.

"I'll keep that in mind," she murmured, before making her way towards the cabin door. Inhaling deeply, she pushed it open, lingering only a moment before stepping through.

Catching sight of her, the crew's doctor rose from his seat. Gruff and no-nonsense but with a wry sense of humour, Doc was easily one of the kindest men Makino had ever met, barring maybe his current patient, although his appearance had first suggested the opposite. His square face was a map of hard angles, the dark ghost of a stubble on his jaw deepening his frown-lines, and the heavy-set shoulders looming wide above his broad chest looked better suited a butcher than a ship's doctor, but she regretted the comparison a moment later, catching sight of the blood covering the front of his shirt. He'd rolled his sleeves up to his elbows, the blue ink of the tattoos wrapping up his arms a familiar sight, and so she fixed her eyes on those instead.

"There you are," he said, keeping his voice low as Makino came further into the cabin. She'd only been inside once before, a moment stolen to themselves with the whole crew at the tavern and their hands too eager to wait for the bar to close up. It was a fond, well-visited memory, caged between the mattress and his larger frame, and the low sun filtering through the porthole dripping gold across the planks and the scars on his back.

It seemed a wholly different cabin now, shrouded in shadows but for the stubborn glow of a lone kerosene lamp, sitting on a chest shoved against the far wall. But she could make out the desk — the maps covering the top of it that she'd perused once in passing, and the highball glass she knew Shanks treasured but not for what reason, holding down one corner.

"Was beginning to think you'd finally gotten some sense and left his sorry arse behind," Doc said then, touching a large hand to Makino's shoulder, but beneath the words, she caught the underlying gratitude, and tried her best to return the smile as he made to walk past her.

"Oye, Doc," drawled a tired voice from the bunk, and her gaze shifted to meet Shanks', watching her from across the cabin. His grin didn't quite manage to convey the ease she'd come to expect, and the fact that he was so very clearly in pain was evident from the slight twist to his mouth, even before she saw the feverish sheen of sweat that covered his brow. "What did I tell you about bad-mouthing me in front of my girl?"

Doc only arched a brow, before giving Makino a look. "If he starts acting up, you come get me," he said, much like Ben had, although there was enough open concern in that phrase to let Makino know he wasn't talking about his captain's wandering hands.

She nodded. "I will."

When the door closed behind him, she turned, making for the bunk without another thought and finally allowing some of her composure to slip, not caring what Shanks read into her too-quick steps as she crossed the cabin. But going by the smile that eased across his face as she came closer, Makino had the impression that he'd expected her reaction to some extent, although he only seemed pleased at the sight.

They'd changed his shirt, the left sleeve having been cut off completely, and her heart constricted at the sight of the bandaged stump. The rest of the bandage had been wrapped around his chest and shoulder, cinched tight, and visible through the open slit of his unbuttoned shirt.

But there was no blood, and she took some heart in that, although she didn't want to think too hard about the preceding surgery, or the lingering, caustic smell of burning flesh that clung, deceptively sweet in the musty air of the cabin. The porthole had been left open, letting in the sea-breeze, but it did little to settle her heart — or her stomach.

"Hey," Shanks said then, softly, dragging her thoughts back from where they'd wandered, to the blood that had covered the docks. When she met his eyes it was to find his smile curving, although there was an edge of unfamiliar tension in it. "What a sight, huh? Sorry you have to see me like this." He tilted his head on the pillow, eyes dark in the flickering lamplight. "So much for being the prettiest man you've ever met. Someone should tell Yasopp the title is up for grabs — I know he's always wanted it."

The laugh that bubbled up from her held a sob, but she let it fall into the space between them as she moved to take a seat on the mattress, bypassing the chair Doc had left. "I'll make sure to tell him," she said. Reaching for his hand, she curled her fingers around his, and could have sobbed from the relief when she felt him tuck his own around hers in a tight grip. "Although I still maintain that it's yours."

His grin widened, eyes crinkling a bit at the corners. "Figured you might," he murmured, holding her gaze. "Was hoping for it, actually. Given your admiration of all my other scars, I thought 'this is going to drive her _wild'."_

His hair had fallen into his brow, damp and curling, and Makino reached out to brush it away from his face. She didn't know whether to laugh or cry at the fact that he was making jokes, but settled for something in-between, although the sob still caught at the bottom of her throat made her voice thick when she spoke, ruining her attempted levity. "Should have consulted me first."

The smile on his face softened at that, and some of the humour drained from his eyes. He squeezed her hand, her fist small where it was tucked against his palm. "I'm sorry. I didn't really stop to think."

She shook her head. "You saved Luffy's life. Don't be sorry about that."

That made the corner of his mouth lift. "Kid alright?"

"A little shaken, but he'll be fine," Makino said. "I put him to bed a while ago. He was exhausted."

Shanks chuckled, the sound seeming pulled from deep in his chest. His voice still had a too-rough tinge to it that made her wonder how much pain he was in. "A lot of excitement for one day. Surprised the village could handle it."

She was aware that she was crying now, but didn't bother to wipe the tears away. "Yeah, well. We're getting better at that."

His expression yielded some of its good humour in favour of concern, and she felt the warmth of his hand releasing her own, before he reached up to touch her cheek, wiping away the tears, although it did little to stop them from coming. God, she was _tired;_ the bone-weary kind of exhaustion that she hadn't felt since the days just after Emiko's passing. And the relief at seeing him awake and talking had left her feeling like she'd been wrung inside-out.

"How are you holding up, my girl?" Shanks asked.

She made a disbelieving noise; she thought it might have been a laugh. "You're asking _me?"_

The grin she got was a self-assured quirk of the lips, and familiar enough to allow the knot in her stomach to loosen, if only a fraction. "Gotta stay tough. You know how it is."

"Fool man," she said, but her voice sounded too thick for a proper reprimand. "I'm fine. Worried about you, if anything. Are you in pain?"

Shanks raised a brow at that. "With what Doc's given me? Can't feel my left arm anymore. _Oh_ — wait," he laughed, but his smile fell at the look on her face. "What, too soon?"

She shook her head. He'd dropped his hand from her cheek, and had reached for her fingers again, fretting in her lap. His hand was warm where it closed around hers. "I'm sorry. Please, make all the jokes you want. It's better than the alternative."

"Which is?"

At her sharp look, he shrugged, then winced. "Ah, yep — I take that back. I can feel it. God, that's so weird," he wheezed, and her eyes widened in alarm, but when she was about to rise from her seat, he tugged her back down. "Hey, let the man rest. He's been at it since they brought me in."

"But—"

"My _girl,"_ he cut her off gently. "What I need isn't more painkillers. I've had enough of those to last me a lifetime, I think. Also, I prefer liquid painkillers to the stuff Doc has, but he wouldn't let me mix. Can you believe that? Blatant insubordination, I swear. You give someone a finger and they take the whole hand, right?"

Makino let the breath she'd been holding go. And she didn't know what to make of his jokes, unable to muster the same ease even in receiving them, and she wasn't the one with the amputation. "Then what to you need?" she asked instead, because she could manage that, she thought.

The look he gave her was such that it stole the breath she'd just reclaimed, and for a moment Makino thought she knew what would follow — that single-syllable word that she felt more than heard in the tightening of his fingers around hers, but then his gaze released her, shifting toward the desk propped against the wall opposite. "Top drawer," Shanks said. "There's a parcel. Get it for me?"

Heart settling back down from its leap — and that he could still do this to her, after all they'd said and done; that he could do no more than look at her, and leave her feeling like there were levels of intimacy they hadn't yet reached, was hard to wrap her head around — she frowned, but did as was requested, releasing his hand as she made for the desk, to retrieve a flat, rectangular package wrapped in coarse brown paper.

Sitting back down, she raised a questioning brow. "And now?"

Shanks grinned, nudging her gently. "Open it. It's for you."

She blinked. "For me?"

His smile delighted in her surprise. "Yes, _you_. It's a gift."

She looked down at the parcel, then back at him. When he nodded, she set to unwrapping it, and despite the situation being what it was, her eyes widened at the sight of the leather-bound book, surprise and delight banishing her worry for a whole heartbeat.

But it was enough, and the pleased smile that had settled on Shanks' face when she looked at him didn't seem as pained as it had a moment ago.

Running her hands over the cover, she nearly cooed at the smooth texture. Quality paper, and real gilded edges — actual gold leafing on the front and back cover, both intricately illustrated; storm-and-sea, and sea-sirens observing the crashing waves against a jutting reef, the whole scene carved into the leather by expert hands.

"Went to a lot of trouble for that," Shanks said then, and Makino looked up from the book. "It's a first edition. Rare, too. Headquarters would throw a fit if they knew I had it." He gave her a look, eyes gleaming suddenly with something else than fever. "So you might want to keep it out of Garp's line of vision. Maybe put it with that dirty little library you keep under your bed."

She didn't know how he knew about that, and might have found the mind to remark on it, if it hadn't already been so preoccupied with the first thing that had come out of his mouth. "You _stole_  this?"

Shanks grinned, cheerfully unperturbed by her undignified outburst. "Not 'stole' so much as 'liberated'. Now, the guy I liberated it from, _he'd_ stolen it — from a Government ship, I think it was. Antiques and knick-knacks. Historical artefacts of varying importance, some that probably wouldn't see the light of day if Headquarters had their way. And your new novel, as fate would have it. Not really sure where it falls within those categories, but I think it's safe to assume they'd have kittens if they knew, so don't go flaunting it. At least not too much."

She gaped. "My new— Shanks, this isn't mine. And _Government ship_?" She was almost afraid to keep holding it, as though there'd be marines storming in at any moment, ready to lock her up just for looking at it.

"Hey," he said. "Last I checked, the Government had better things to do than preserving old books. You're a much worthier keeper." Makino knew she still looked dubious, and he raised his brows innocently. "You don't like it?"

She tried her best to glare, but it failed, and so she settled for shaking her head. "You're a scoundrel."

"Flattery, my heart? I should warn you, I'm terribly susceptible to that."

She huffed a laugh, then caught herself, but Shanks was grinning now. "Ah, there it is." The rough note in his voice was softened by a sudden fondness. "I was wondering what it would take." He ignored the look she gave him, and nodded towards the book. "I haven't read it, and so I don't know what it's about. But since I'm not really cut out to do much else at the moment..."

Makino smiled. "Would you like me to read to you, Captain?"

His smile was suddenly full of cheek, and she knew what was coming even before he said, "Unless you have other ideas. Although I don't think Doc would approve of _that,_ my condition being what it is." When she turned her eyes to the ceiling, he laughed. "We could try, though — you know I'm always up for a challenge. And I've _missed_ you."

The last part held no trace of humour, just a terrible weight of earnestness, and her teasing question about exactly what he'd missed slipped her mind completely.

"We didn't get that reunion," she said then, and Shanks' smile quirked, suddenly wry.

"Yeah. I should be careful making promises, huh?"

She shook her head. "You're alive. I'll consider that a promise kept."

His laugh was a soft thing. "Either your standards are despairingly low, or you're even more stubborn than I gave you credit."

It took no effort for her smile to come now. "Neither," Makino said. "I'm just good at making the most of a situation."

At that, Shanks just looked at her, expression quietly wondering. Then, "You're something else," he said. "Has anyone ever told you?"

She looked down at the book in her lap; the sea-sirens and the crashing waves. She remembered a sunny-warm day and the floor of her bar, and a word, laughed against her pulse, teasingly condemning _._ "Oh, maybe once or twice," she mused, touching a fingertip to the cover, following the grooves in the leather, before lifting her eyes back to Shanks. "Certain gestures have been rather telling."

His grin was quick. "Certain gestures, huh?"

"Hmm."

"Well, you are. Take it from someone who spends entirely too much time thinking about you. At least according to Ben, but you know that big softie doesn't really mean it."

"Distracted from your duties, Captain?" Makino asked, trying to keep her tone light, and from focusing too much on how ragged his breathing sounded. A pearl of sweat trickled down his temple, to catch in the stubble at his jaw, although Shanks hardly seemed to notice.

His grin turned suddenly wicked, and despite their glassy look, his eyes were suddenly dark with meaning. "You have no idea. It's a miracle I haven't fallen overboard."

"That bad, is it?"

He looked at her, and she had the sense that she shouldn't indulge him in his teasing; that he needed rest, but it was hard not to, after a day spent fearing she'd never even hear his voice again. "You know, at this rate you'll have me forgetting about the arm," he murmured. "And Doc really would toss me overboard if I let all his hard work go to waste." His eyes glittered, the glassiness still present, but broken through by something that didn't make her think of _pain._ "I could stay very still, though. You could have your way with me?" At her patient look, he flashed her a grin, "C'mon, don't tell me you had completely innocent activities in mind for when I came back?"

She sighed. "Listen to you. We're past the point where you can make me blush, you know."

"Oh, really now? Care to bet?"

The look he was subjecting her to was rendering her earlier comment obsolete, Makino realised. "You're bedridden, Shanks."

"I know. Would be a shame not to take advantage."

The startled laugh that pulled free of her did so of its own volition, and she watched his grin widen. "I can't believe you're thinking about that now!"

"I can't believe you're _not_ thinking about that. Here I am, completely at your mercy. Covered in sweat, sheets rumpled. Remove the bandage and you've got the cover of one of your favourite books." He raised a brow. "Yeah, you know the one I'm talking about. It has about a hundred dog-eared pages, and— oh, what's this?" He grinned, entirely pleased with himself. "Past the point of making you blush, was it?"

She huffed. "You're incorrigible."

"And you're full of compliments today," he mused. "If I didn't know better, I'd think you were trying to seduce me. Of course, I'm already familiar with your methods of seduction, and you're far too devious for that kind of head-on approach. Not that I'd mind if you wanted to switch things up."

She was smiling now, mouth pursing with it. "I'm choosing to ignore your suggestion of ulterior motives," Makino said. "And for the record, only _you_ would take that as a compliment."

"You know I'll just take that as another compliment."

She sighed, but the laugh that escaped with it was a genuine thing. The vice that had seemed cinched around her ribcage all day had loosened without her realising it, but she didn't know why she was surprised — that he'd known exactly what to say to make her feel better, or the fact that he'd even attempted to, when she wasn't the one bedridden after a traumatic amputation.

Her gaze flickered to his left side, and the bandaged stump. There were so many questions she wanted to ask — what would happen now, and what he would do. He was left-handed, she knew. It hadn't just been an arm that he'd lost; it had been his sword arm. And for all that she didn't know a single thing about swordsmanship, she could make a fair enough guess that it wasn't just a matter of switching hands. Would this delay their departure? Their plans to set sail for the Grand Line?

It felt wrong to hope —  _selfish,_ and so she shoved it back down before she could give herself a chance to feel it. The questions still sat on her tongue, but she pushed them back too, and turned her attention from his missing arm and to the book in her lap. Opening it, she turned a few pages until the start of the first chapter, marvelling silently at the elaborate writing and the decorated pages; delicate, hand-painted filigree and fleur-de-lis, in deep purples and blues and golds.

When she looked up, it was to find Shanks watching her, although his eyes were hooded, like he was fighting to keep them open. "Are you sure you want me to read?" she asked. "Wouldn't you rather sleep?"

He shook his head, a tired smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. "Right now," he murmured, exhaustion wrapped tight around the words, "I'd like to listen to your voice. I've missed it."

The honest admission made her heart flutter against her ribcage, prompting a small, disbelieving smile as she looked at him, sweat coating his skin and his bright hair clinging to his brow. Not exactly the cover of a novel, but then it had been a long time since she'd last rooted through the hidden library under her bed, her imagination seeking her memories now; not as embellished, but the reality of his affections, and his unique way of demonstrating them, far outweighed anything she'd ever found between the pages of a book.

And it wasn't the reunion she'd looked forward to, too-eager touches and kisses holding weeks of longing and imagining, but she'd take it. She'd grab hold with both hands and never let go, because the alternative wasn't just worse, it was unthinkable. She'd reconciled herself with the thought of him leaving, because she knew — knew, because for all his teasing quips suggesting the opposite, he was a man who kept his promises — that he'd come back to her. And she could live with being a few seas apart, if it meant he'd be alive to cross them again.

She hadn't even considered losing him before today, or what it would mean; a life that wouldn't just be quiet for a few more years, but that would never be the same. _Loss_ didn't even scratch the surface, considering the prospect now — that the quiet breaths beside her might well have been entirely still; that she hadn't been called to keep him company, but to say goodbye, and the book in her hands a parting gift.

It was suddenly difficult to breathe, thinking about it, and so she steered her thoughts away before they could travel any further down that path. He was alive, and she rooted her heart in the truth of it now, focusing on the heavy breaths sitting under the quiet, and the steady rise and fall of his bandaged chest. He was already asleep, but she didn't mind — she'd said she would read to him. It would give her something to do, anyway, and keep her from losing her mind in the long hours that loomed ahead. She doubted there'd be much sleep for her tonight.

Slipping off her shoes, Makino lifted her legs up onto the mattress, tucking herself against his uninjured side, careful not to disturb him, but needing to touch him, the warmth of his skin, and the movement of his breaths. And with each of her priceless treasures within reach, the one in her hands and the one snoring softly beside her, she tucked the book between them, eyes straining in the low light and her voice barely stirring the quiet—

"At the outermost edges of the sea, in a realm rarely travelled by men and where sirens danced in shallow waters, singing sailors' hearts closer, to break upon the reefs, there sailed a pirate ship..."

 


	13. disbound, but not forever

_One week,_ he tells her.

Doc had just finished changing the bandage, and Makino hadn't been inside the cabin more than five minutes. He'd grown restless over the past few days, confined to his bunk, barring a few daily steps out on deck to stretch his legs. It was understandable that he was eager for a change in routine, but the abruptness of the declaration had still caught her off guard.

She didn't want to admit that she'd gotten comfortable with the idea of him staying — that she'd pushed the reality of their imminent departure away because he'd been injured. She didn't want to admit it, but she knew Shanks was probably aware. Hence the reminder.

Doc threw her a look that spoke volumes of what he thought about it, but Makino deflected it with an apologetic smile. He looked at his captain then, and whatever passed between them, the silent stand-off lasted no more than a single, laden second, before Doc was rising from his chair, muttering under his breath as he made for the door.

Passing by Makino, he told her, "Damn heart's the matter, not the bloody arm." But before she had a chance to question what he'd meant, the door had shut behind him, leaving her in the cabin with Shanks.

A tense beat of silence passed where all she did was stare at the closed door, the weight of his eyes heavy on her back, but whatever his thoughts, Shanks seemed intent on letting her have a moment, if only to brace herself.

Heart in her throat now, Makino wondered if it wouldn't have been kinder if he'd just forged on, the show of consideration suddenly more than she could take.

Turning back to the bunk, she found him watching her, seeming cheerfully unaffected by the sudden tension that had settled over his cramped quarters. And if it hadn't been for the look in his eyes, Makino would have been fooled by the facade.

He was propped up against the wall, and slouched comfortably with his remaining arm tucked behind his head, a book open in his lap; from the looks of things, he'd been adding notes in the margins. The fever gone, a healthy flush of colour was back in his cheeks, and she was momentarily caught so off guard by how _well_ he looked, all she could do was stare.

Then she caught sight of the empty space where his left arm should have been, and her expression fell.

Shanks arched a brow, a quizzical smile playing along his lips. "What's that look for?"

She quickly schooled her expression. "There's no look," she said, as she moved to sit on the edge of the bunk, hands nervously smoothing over her skirt. Snapping the book shut, he cocked his head, his own look stating quite clearly that he wasn't buying what she was selling, and Makino sighed. "The arm?"

"Still missing," he chirped, not even missing a beat.

Makino snatched the book from his hand, smacking his leg with it, and startling a laugh from his chest. "I meant the—" She motioned to the general area of his left shoulder, waving the book to emphasise her point.

He followed the line of her gaze, features drawing together in an odd grimace, as though he couldn't quite decide what to think about it. "It's strange," he said then, after a moment of consideration. "I thought I'd feel lopsided, but I don't. It's still weird, but still better than expected."

Her smile was small, but she was satisfied with the answer — it was better than denial, and even his terrible brand of humour. And it was another testament to his health, and that he was recovering; another reminder, although much subtler than his earlier one, that their time was running out.

Fingers running over the cover of the book in her hands absently, Makino caught his eyes following the movement. "Did you like it?" he asked then.

She met his eyes, gaze unflinching. "I haven't finished it yet. We still have more than half of it left."

She'd been reading to him as he recovered. It was a slow process, as he was prone to ponder points in the story aloud as she read, and there were times she had to go back and re-read certain sections. And if he fell asleep during a session, he would demand she go back and re-read that, too, although Makino had a feeling it had more to do with hearing her read, and not because he was so caught up in the story.

"Come now, Makino," Shanks chided, smile quirking, that clever-but-fond look she still had trouble coming to terms with; the one that didn't just speak of intimate knowledge of who she was, but that made it seem as though all those little details _mattered_. No one had ever looked at her like that — like he did, and seemingly without conscious thought. "Let's be honest. I know you've finished it."

Despite herself, she flushed, but didn't drop her eyes from his. "Well, I had to occupy myself with something all those times you've been asleep," she told him primly. She'd spent more time in his cabin over the past week than she had running her bar, but no one had uttered so much as a quip in her presence. And she didn't know if it was because they did it behind her back, or because they really didn't begrudge her the time spent with him. If anyone in Fuschia was still on the fence regarding Shanks' motives, Makino suspected he'd won over the last few, grudging hearts with his actions the day he'd lost his arm.

He actually managed to look hurt. "You're saying my presence isn't enough to satisfy you?" He placed his hand over his heart. "Cruel girl. And here I could watch you sleep for hours without needing any further stimulation."

She rolled her eyes, but her smile came now when she looked for it. "I think you'll live, Captain."

"I could have died in my sleep and you wouldn't have noticed. I know how you are when you read. Wholly absorbed." Then, musingly, "I used to think it was endearing, but now I'm not so sure."

"Ben would have found you eventually," she said, nudging him with the book. "And it's not like we would have finished it together in time, anyway."

She caught the subtle edge in her own remark just seconds after she'd spoken it, but it was too late to take it back. This time, she did drop her gaze, suddenly ashamed. "I'm sorry—"

"Makino."

She didn't look at him. Couldn't, because she didn't want to see what she knew would be on his face. She'd walked into her fate willingly, and she wasn't about to give him grief for what had been inevitable all along.

"One week," she said instead, the words quiet, damning things.

A sigh fell, heavier than his usual dramatics were wont to make it. "Yeah."

She looked at the book in her lap, and traced the pads of her fingers along the gilded edges. "Are you ready to set sail?"

She couldn't see him shrug, but she felt the mattress shift beneath her, and heard the rustle of the sheets. "Who knows? Ben thinks we should stay longer. Doc agrees." There was a distinctly wry lilt to the very last bit.

"And you don't," she said.

There was a prolonged pause — so long that she felt her fingers clenching around the book, digging into the soft leather. The illustration on the cover looked back at her, the sirens and the waves beautiful in their silent mockery.

She wondered if she'd even bear looking at it, after he left. There was too much of him in it already — the giving of it, for one, and scenes he'd liked in particular and had wanted her to reread that she couldn't even think about now without also thinking of him. There were the many corrections he'd made to nautical terms and anachronisms, and his predictions about the story (she'd learned he was a cunning strategist, if only through how quickly he'd picked apart the plot), although what she remembered most was his delight in the narrative as a whole.

 _There's something about the imagery_ , he'd told her, eyes twinkling, when she'd asked him what he'd found so compelling about it.

Finally, Shanks sighed. "I can't," he said then, and when she lifted her eyes it was to find him looking at the book in her lap. And it was a small wonder, Makino thought, for a man who'd met the gaze of a sea king without flinching, to suddenly look as though he couldn't bear to look at _her._  "Any longer than that, and I won't be setting sail anywhere."

She didn't think she could have schooled her reaction if she'd wanted to, visceral as it was, and she watched him raise his eyes to hers, the smile on his face suggesting that he'd already expected it. But there were shadows sitting behind the smile, and the good humour he was trying to pass off only left a bitter taste in her mouth.

"Makino," Shanks said then. "Please don't think this is easy. If it was, we would have set sail months ago and never looked back. Why do you think we didn't?"

She didn't bother trying to stop the tears. "I'm sorry for making it so difficult for you, Captain."

He reached out his remaining hand to touch his fingers to her cheek, thumb sketching tenderly along her cheekbone. The smile that lifted the corner of his mouth was wry, but there was a naked emotion in his eyes now that he didn't seem inclined to hide. But maybe there was no point to it; coyness was a game better suited romantic narratives thriving on miscommunication and misunderstandings, although in this case, honesty didn't bring relief so much as it brought heartache.

"You'll bring great men to their knees with those tears," Shanks said then, tucking a lock of hair behind her ear, the gesture dear and familiar. "Mark my words."

The laugh that slipped past her lips sounded distinctly like a sob, but she lifted her chin, mouth pursing with a smile. "Only one."

"Good." His answer was instantaneous, like his grin. "Hate to come back to take you away and find you tied down." But right after he'd spoken, something passed over his face, twisting his features. "Although—"

"No."

"If you do meet someone—"

"No."

"Then you should know—"

" _No_."

A sigh. "Makino—"

"The answer is still 'no', Shanks," she cut him off smoothly, and was momentarily surprised at the steel in her own voice, and how easily his name had slipped from her tongue. "I'll wait."

He wore his concern openly now, although she thought she caught something else underlying it. "You say that now, but ten years is a long time. If someone comes along and you've got a shot at happiness—"

"Then I'll kindly tell them where to stick it."

He barked a laugh at that, and for a moment he seemed so startled by her immediate answer he let his concern slip completely. And she saw then, the satisfaction he hadn't wanted to demonstrate; the fact that he really had been pleased, to hear that she'd wait.

"Oh, my girl," Shanks said then, sigh holding a soft chuckle. "Ben's been a bad influence on you."

"Come now," she mimicked his favoured rebuttal, eyes gleaming with more than just tears. "You like it."

He shook his head. "God help me, but I do."

He looked at her then, something suddenly afflicted chasing across his expression, and she thought he might say something else — felt it, in that warm gaze; the three words that had been sitting on the tip of her tongue for weeks now — but a sigh pulled from deep in his chest, and, "Tell me what I'll do without you," he said instead.

Her fingers left the book to reach for his, intertwining them tightly, and tucking softer callouses against his own. And she'd miss his easy touches, she thought. It was strange, the little things two people manage to accumulate between them; phrases and inside jokes, and speech that already anticipates the answer. But gestures, too, like his grin against her knuckles, and the tuck of her hair behind her ear. She wondered how she'd live without them.

"You'll get into trouble," she told him, smile lifting as she rubbed her thumbs gently against the white scars criss-crossing the back of his hand, over his knuckles. "You'll get everyone into trouble."

"Both often and creatively," Shanks agreed.

"You'll get lost, too."

"Quite possibly."

"And forget to dress with the weather."

He laughed softly. "Oh, most _definitely."_

Twisting his hand, his fingers covered her own, and Makino watched them; traced the veins along the back, and the small map of nicks and scars, silver-white against his sun-darkened skin. His life had left marks, and she wondered what his hand would look like in ten years' time, and what new scars he would have to show her, tall tales attached. That was, if he lived to come back, and to tell them. If he didn't—

She stopped herself from finishing the thought, unable to bear even the suggestion that he wouldn't. Instead she focused on how he was now, and the warm hand covering her own. Only one, but his grip strong and sure.

"Ben will lecture you," she pushed herself to continue, ignoring the hoarse note in her voice, and how his fingers tightened around hers at the sound of it. "And Doc will patch you up. They'll all have your back. They'll keep you company." _They'll keep you alive._

"Ah, but who will keep me sane?"

She laughed at that, and the sheer force of the mirth bubbling forth took them both by surprise. But she'd take this over the tears any day, and for as many days as she could, in the years that awaited her. "Oh, I'm sure you'll find a nice girl in some other backwater port."

"Yeah? Do you think she reads, too?"

Makino hummed. "Hard to say. Depends on how boring the port." She shrugged. "You should stock up on some new books, just in case."

"Sound advice. They have worked surprisingly well as gifts," Shanks mused. "All I ever thought I knew about romantic gestures is apparently outdated. And a charmer of my calibre has to keep up with the times."

"Hmm. No stolen goods this time, though. She might not be as accepting of your roguish ways."

His grin got a decidedly wicked slant. "Oh no? I've come to find that even the most proper of girls can be persuaded, with the right means." But then his eyes softened a bit. "Well. One girl, anyway. And I think it might just be because there's more pirate in her than she thinks."

It was testament to his influence, Makino thought, that she had the sudden impulse to quip _there's no pirate in her at the moment, unless you're up for it_ , and the laugh that escaped her swallowed her sob whole, until she was shaking with it.

"What?" Shanks asked, seeming entirely pleased at the sight, even as it was clear he didn't understand what had made her burst out laughing.

She shook her head, smile soft and tender, despite the bright warmth of mirth that had kindled behind her ribcage. "Nothing," she murmured. But with her heart still light, and before she could lose her courage, "I just realised how much I'd miss you," she said, honestly.

Shanks' expression softened, and he didn't have to return the sentiment in order for her to feel it, the weight of it settling between them along with the silence that followed at the heels of her admission. Closing her eyes, she sought the gentle sway of the ship, and the muted  _thump-thump-thump_ of feet on the deck outside, steady like a heartbeat — the pulse of the ship, running through the wood. Ben's voice drifted through the door as he passed by, and she caught the edge of a laugh that sounded like Yasopp's, but no one disturbed them where they sat, the quiet ever-deepening, but never uncomfortable.

"His first bounty."

Her eyes snapped open, and she looked up, wondering if she'd accidentally dozed off. "What?"

Shanks' smile told her he'd been wondering the same. "Luffy's first bounty," he clarified. "That's when you'll know."

Her lips pursed with a smile of her own. "You think he'll get a bounty so soon? I've heard it can take years."

Shanks snorted. "That kid will toss himself into the Government's line of sight before he's reached the Grand Line. He's a magnet for trouble."

"Takes one to know one, does it?"

He stuck his tongue out, but his grin ruined it. "So _cheeky._ But yeah, pretty much."

Makino laughed. "I'll be ready when he sets sail, then."

"Unless you've changed your mind and want to come with us now," Shanks said then. "You've become well-acquainted with my bunk, and my sleeping habits. And someone let slip that you've been teaching our cook your favourite recipes." He raised a brow. "Something you want to share?"

She pressed her mouth together to hide her smile. She'd thought she was being subtle. "Just the ones you said you liked," she admitted at length.

Shanks shook his head, but his smile had that softly marvelling look to it that never ceased to surprise her. "That would be all of them, then," he said. "And did it ever occur to you that it wasn't the meals themselves I liked, but the one making them?" He blinked. "Wait. That sounded like a backhanded compliment. What I meant was—"

"Shanks," she laughed. "I get it."

"You sure?" he asked, eyes gleaming. "I could elaborate in detail on how much I love both you and your cooking."

The entirely casual admission, slipped between one remark and the next as though it was the easiest thing in the world, felt like it stopped her heart. And whatever clever words she'd been prepared to offer what she'd expected would be a quick, breezy comeback, failed her as she looked at Shanks, watching her back, entirely at ease. He hadn't even flinched.

And she wondered then, why she was surprised — both that he'd say it in such a way, and that he'd be entirely unapologetic about it.

"Your cook might get jealous, if he heard you say that," she said then, and her voice sounded thick, but she stubbornly kept the tears from falling. Her smile trembled. "Maybe it's a good thing I'm not coming along. I'd hate for there to be competition."

Shanks snorted. "If anyone on this ship should be worried about facing competition from you it's _me,_ " he told her. "You should hear how they talk about you. You'd think a mutiny was imminent."

She wondered if he could see on her face the pleasure that swelled up within her at the remark, and on the heels of the feeling already filling her chest, Makino thought it might burst from it. But if he didn't see it, she knew the quaver in her voice gave her away. "They're good men."

His eyes crinkled at the corners with his smile. "Aye, they are." He tilted his head then. "But I take it that's a 'no' to my second offer? Or is this my third? Ah, well. Doesn't really matter. But you can't fault a man for trying." He grinned, but it seemed half-hearted; a shadow of the smile he'd be giving her if she'd agreed to go with them.

The thought sobered her some from the comfort of his easy-going attitude, and reality felt cold even in the warmth of the cabin; the realisation that this would be their last week together in a decade.

The unwanted yet persisting thought that the promise of his return was wholly dependent on the fact that he actually lived that long crept forth again from the back of her mind, but Makino shoved it back down without mercy. She'd entertained the thought before — too much for her own peace of mind, after he'd lost his arm, but it was hard to quell once it had taken root. The seafaring life of a pirate wasn't to be taken lightly, especially a pirate like him.

He often joked about it — his apparent lack of fame, but Makino wasn't so easily fooled. He'd compelled a sea king to relent with a single look; the rumour had hit the village as quickly as the news about the arm. And of course, she'd been present to witness him handle the bandits. She knew now what that strange bout of dizziness had been, and a man who radiated power and authority like that wasn't just any other pirate.

But if he felt better pretending to be otherwise around her, she'd let him. Just like she'd let him keep the secret about his scars, or as he called it, "the cooking accident", his "botched attempt at juggling too many knives at once", and his "drunken run-in with a mountain cat he'd tried to bring back to the ship that one time on that island in North Blue". Of course, Makino wouldn't insult his intelligence more than he would hers, and think he genuinely believed he had her fooled.

And so it remained between them, in the gap between their worlds, like the vast mountain range dividing the Blues from the Grand Line. And just like the unpredictable waters of the latter differed from the calm sea Makino called home, their worlds remained separate, and would stay that way, at least until he came back for her. Until then, she'd believe the story about the cooking accident, and the knife-juggling, because the real story behind those scars had nothing to do with the life she lived now — the quiet, daily routines of a village barmaid. No, that was a story she'd reserve for the day she stepped aboard his ship as a member of his crew.

"Ten years," Shanks said then, as though his thoughts had followed the same path as hers.

Makino nodded, and breathed through her nose, shoulders slumping a bit with her exhale, like she could already feel the weight of them settling down, getting comfortable. "Ten years."

"I'll be old," he mused.

"So will I," she countered.

"Not that old," he said, with a quick, rueful smile. "Sure you'll still want a geezer like me?" And despite the teasing lilt to his tone, the actual question rang loud and clear. He'd meant for her to hear it. "What was it you called me once — a relic?"

She shrugged. "We'll see. You might have some new crewmen by then—"

"Note to self. Never hire anyone attractive," Shanks muttered under his breath.

"—and if not, there's always Ben."

"Oh, you think I'll be old by then? Ben will have a full head of grey hair. And a bum hip."

Makino hummed. "I like a man with a little grey in his hair."

She got a surprisingly convincing glare for that. _"Cruel."_

She laughed, her gaze settling on his hair, falling over his scarred eye. "And your hair, Captain?" she asked. "What colour will it be?"

Shanks managed to look sufficiently scandalised. "Hey, I won't even be forty by then! You're taking the old man joke a bit too far."

"But you make it so _easy."_

"Yeah, yeah," he muttered. "I'll show you. You and Ben both."

"We'll see," Makino hummed, and found his eyes curving.

"Yeah? I'm looking forward to it."

Fingers tightening around his, and meeting his laughing eyes with her own, she felt, perhaps for the first time since his departure from her life had become an imminent fact, the cold hands of helplessness let go of her heart. And from the chasm spanning the years ahead of them, stubborn hope clawed its way to the surface.

And taking in the cocksure grin on his face, present despite his new handicap and promising future mischief to drive the Government out of their collective minds, Makino found that perhaps ten years wouldn't be such a long time after all.

 

—

 

The week went by too fast, the days lost to preparations and late-night parties that stretched beyond the following sunrise, the crew's laughter filling her bar to the brim and Shanks' presence never far from her side, despite the work that kept her busy, and the effort it still took for him to get out of his bunk. He seemed intent on reclaiming a semblance of control, and she'd stopped trying to persuade him to take it easy, recognising it as a battle lost.

And anyway, seeing him up and about was preferable to seeing him bedridden, although his aversion to the latter hadn't stopped him from suggesting they make the most of the time they had left being just that.

"Since you're so good at making the most of a situation," he'd quipped, and stolen a kiss in the same breath, and kept kissing her until she'd relented, her protests dissolving in laughter against his mouth. And despite her continued insistence that he take it slow, she hadn't been terribly hard to ask when he'd demonstrated, and with his unique brand of enthusiasm, that he was more than up for the challenge. It was a memory that still made her blush, thinking about it; she could never be called bold, but he made it far too easy for her to forget that.

And there was something to be said for the fact that hands weren't all that necessary, if you didn't mind being creative.

It was a thought that would make her laugh, years down the line, remembering. But in the midst of their week long leave-taking of each other, hastily re-climbing a steep learning curve they'd already covered once before, she'd had little mind for laughter (although it crept out of her anyway, lured by grinning kisses and touches that knew to seek laughter as well as other, more intimate sounds).

It was a week of trial and error, and her careful touches tempted into forgetting about his injury, as he matched them with a near-careless enthusiasm that had no mind for taking things slow. And it was a week spent coaxing her hair back into its kerchief, and her expression from letting slip to his whole crew exactly why she'd taken two more hours to open the bar.

But for all that the week had been spent in the company of others, at least barring their few, stolen moments, the night before their departure was wholly theirs. And with her tavern full and his ship empty save the two of them, Makino left her reservations on the wharf, as intent on making the most of things as she'd ever been, with a single night to spend and the whole of him to herself.

Her books always painted last nights as entirely elegant affairs, full of restrained longing and tender, time-consuming touches. What manner of last nights usually differed — sometimes it was before a departure, or a great battle; other times an impending marriage to someone else, or the end of the world (sometimes the latter two seemed interchangeable, if the author had a penchant for dramatics).

But the books never mentioned the unflattering truths — that sometimes you didn't even make it to the bed, and that rearranging limbs and positions when in a hurry often ended with someone's hair being trapped, and knees smacking together. They didn't mention that sometimes a thrust would be a little too hard, or the angle wrong, and that there'd be a whole lot of fumbling, zippers stuck and socks forgotten, and that skin-on-skin didn't exactly make music.

But her books also didn't mention the softer, unflattering truths — that between the fumbling and the startled curses, and the small noises of discontent at unintentional hair-pulling, there were other things; kisses that sank so deep you had no breath left to think about the muscle cramping in your leg, and the occasional second of perfect synchronisation between stumbling attempts at setting a pace. And all of it dissolving into breathless laughter, before pleasure finally claimed it, because lack of elegance had no say in _that,_ and desperation was one hell of an aphrodisiac.

The bunk looming above them, his back was the one to the floor now, the bottle they'd been sharing having rolled across the planks, seeking refuge against the far wall. It was a curious feeling of things coming full circle, although her initiative had been a blatant thing this time. But there was no trace of awkwardness now, despite the uneven pace, her skirt rucked up to her hips and her weight yielded in earnest. And having only one arm didn't seem to hinder Shanks as he traded the touch of rough fingers with the graze of teeth and a grinning mouth.

" _Ow_ , Shanks—"

"Shit, sorry—"

"Your hipbone is digging into my thigh—!"

"Well I can't help that you're sitting on it!" he laughed. "I was going to suggest doing this in reverse, but you were so decisive, I didn't want to stop you." Then, "Mother of—  _hair,_ Makino, your arm is on my hair. _Ow,_ would you— wait a minute, you're doing it on _purpose—"_

She swallowed his laughter and his protest both, but he eased his pace a bit, and the hands buried in his hair loosened their grip, pushing it away from his brow as she sank against him with a sigh that found its echo in the one shuddering from his chest, although a touch more ragged than hers.

She had the sudden thought that this amount of exertion was too much, too soon, as her hands ghosted over his skin, fever-warm from more than just the summer heat. But it was forgotten under the grip of his fingers, cupping her hip as he held her steady, and the murmur of her name where it slipped under his breath. He'd said something earlier about making up for ten years in one night, and she'd laughed, before she'd realised he'd been completely serious.

And of all the implications sitting under his words and gestures, that had struck her the hardest. And if she was being entirely honest, it was probably the reason she'd allowed herself to forget so thoroughly the fact that, his enthusiasm notwithstanding, he really should be taking it easy. But the way he'd looked at her when he'd said it, gaze bright with an unspoken promise she hadn't asked him to make — hadn't even dared broach the subject, because ten years was a long time — had floored her.

She'd resigned herself to the fact that there would be others — other lovers, in other ports. She hadn't even considered the alternative before he'd put it at her feet, and with the same ease he did everything. As though it hadn't even required effort to make that choice.

His skin was getting warmer —  _too warm_ , her mind supplied with a twinge of worry, wondering if he was running a fever again. And sprawled against the hard planks couldn't be doing him any favours, even caught in that half-delirious daze that always followed a good climax, and that seemed to settle in his bones, along with the familiar, lazy grin she found on his face now. But even with his eyes having slipped closed, when she extracted herself and pulled at his hand, Shanks followed, movements slow and lethargic as she helped ease him onto the mattress.

He collapsed against the tangle of sheets with a graceless lack of care that spoke volumes of how tired he was, but Makino said nothing as she moved to follow, tugging the sheets away and curling up against his uninjured side, tucking her legs up and pressing her ear over his heart.

The weight of his arm settled across her back, warm and heavy, and, "Not — dead yet," came the laughing rasp from somewhere above her head, weariness warmed by familiar mirth, and despite the lump in her throat, Makino felt her smile lifting. "Good way to go though," he murmured, before his chest caved with what sounded like a contented sigh. She felt his hand reach up behind her, and his fingers as they wound through the damp strands of her hair. She breathed in deep; the smell of them, and the cabin. His skin, and the sheets.

"In ten years I'll be able to lift you," Shanks declared then, musingly to the air.

She opened her eyes, blinking. And when she lifted her head to look at him, her quizzical expression was met with a wicked grin. "I'll be sailing perilously close to forty, and if the way my back feels now is any indication of what awaits, I'm going to have to pass on floor sex. Unless you really want it. Given your track record, I'm beginning to wonder if you don't have something of a proclivity. But I've always been more vertically inclined, and you're so small it's so easy." Then — "Shame I can't manage right now, but give me a few years."

The realisation of what he was actually saying hit her then, and for a moment all she could do was look at him, grinning up at her with that entirely too-pleased smile.

And then she _laughed._

Dropping her head to his chest, her shoulders convulsed with the sound that dragged from her, caught so thoroughly off guard by the comment she didn't know what to do with herself. And, "Ah, she does laugh," Shanks murmured, repeating fond words from a time they'd hardly known each another, and gave a startled shout when she pinched his side.

"Lewd man," she sighed. "Is that all you think about?" She'd pushed herself up to look at him down, but she couldn't have made her words sound condemning if she'd wanted to, and by the ever-growing grin on his face, Shanks was well aware of the fact.

"Not _all_ I think about," he countered, raising a brow in challenge. His hair fanned out, bright red against the pillow, and his eyes glittered with familiar humour — and something else she recognised, and that she felt the echo of deep in her gut. "But I won't lie — you do inspire some highly inappropriate thoughts. Often at highly inappropriate moments."

"Please don't—"

"Let's just say it's not the _anchor_ that's the most frequently raised thing aboard my ship."

"God, _Shanks."_

"What? I laughed for like five minutes when I thought of that!"

She couldn't help the laugh, face buried in his chest and her words muffled, "I believe you."

She felt his touch against the shell of her ear, tracing the curve of it. "Sorry," he said then, his smile sheepish, although not a shred apologetic. "I can't help it. I've told you before, you're something of a distraction."

"I seem to remember you saying something like that," she murmured, tilting her head, to lean into his touch. He was still running his finger along her ear, as though trying to commit the shape of it to memory. And before she could stop the question, it had pushed off her tongue, "Do you think you'll feel differently, in ten years? I won't be the same."

There was a single second where she regretted voicing the fear out loud. It was something that had gnawed at her for a while, but she'd kept from bringing it up, mostly because it was so incredibly _vain,_ and the very least of all the complications a decade-long separation could bring with it. Shanks had joked about his hair, but Makino wondered if he would even recognise her, ten years down the line. If the image he took with him, and kept with him, was of herself as she was now, would he be disappointed to discover what ten years might do?

"Ten years can do a number on a person," she said then, quietly.

"Not on you," he said, without a moment's hesitation. "Me, on the other hand..." Then, a short laugh, "Ha. Other hand. Get it?" When she only raised a brow, his smile turned wry, "On that note, an amputation can do a number on a person. Add that to ten years on top of the seven I already have on you, and what have you got? I doubt even a little grey in my hair would salvage that." He met her look, a sudden challenge alighting in his eyes. "Still sure you'll want me back?"

"Of _course_ —"

"Then _stop worrying_."

Her mouth snapped shut, and he grinned up at her, his smile lazy and desperately affectionate. "You'll be as beautiful as you are now," he said, fingertips grazing her cheek, before tilting her head slightly, as though to get a better look at her. "Even more so, I'm willing to wager." Curling his fingers below her chin, he tugged her down for a kiss, the cup of his palm curving around the back of her head, and when she sank into it the sigh that followed took the last of her petty worries with it.

She could feel his grin as it stretched across his lips. "And if not, I'm sure Ben will have you," he quipped.

"Shanks..."

"What?"

The quick jab to the side of his stomach tore a laugh from his throat, but before he'd had a chance to make a grab for her arm, she'd reached in with her other hand, seeking spots she knew by heart and pinching firmly, and he threw his head back with a roar.

"Cripple! _Cripple_ here! Un—unfair play, Ma—Makino!" he wheezed. "St—stop it!"

"Oh, I'm _sorry,_ Captain. I'll leave you to your wounds, if that's what you want. I heard somewhere there's a first mate with a vested interest in me— _e—!"_ she shrieked with laughter as his fingers found the sensitive spot beneath her ribs, the too-fluid movement of someone intimately familiar with the existence of said spot. She squirmed to get away, for the first time in over a week completely unmindful of his amputation.

He caught her around the waist and tugged her back down, somehow managing to keep both of her arms out of reach of his stomach. "Settle down, you wild thing. You're going to give me an early heart attack with your antics," he gasped between breaths.

Makino stuck her tongue out, and smiled when he made to catch it in a kiss. "You'll be missing my antics the minute you set sail tomorrow," she retorted, ignoring the sting behind her ribs at how easily the words fell.

The hand that had kept her arms captive released them, only to press her head against his chest. The action was fervent, desperate almost, but his good humour softened it, rolling over her with his laughter. "Oh, my girl," Shanks sighed. "You have no idea."

She tucked her smile against his skin. "You need to stop saying things like that, or I might just write a book about you."

"Ha! You wouldn't dare."

"Oh no?" she asked. "I have ten years on my hands. What else will I do with my time, once my best customers leave?"

Laughter rumbled beneath her ear. "And what would this book be about, exactly? A roguish captain who sweeps an impressionable village girl off her feet?"

"Don't flatter yourself. I'm pretty sure I was the one doing the sweeping in this adventure."

"Were you now?" he hummed.

"Mhm."

He raised his head to meet her eyes, his own gleaming in the shadows of the cabin. "So how does this story end? After the sweeping, that is."

She met his gaze, hands tucked under her chin, resting on his chest. "After the sweeping?" He nodded, and she rolled a thoughtful hum around on her tongue. "Their lives will take them in different directions. For a little while, at least. But of course he won't be able to resist, so he'll come back for her."

Shanks grinned. "Yeah? And the sweeper herself?"

Makino breathed in. Under her palms, she felt his breaths, and the steady beat of his heart. "Oh, her? She'll be waiting for him when he returns. In some stories, she'll have died the hour before his arrival or something ridiculous like that, but not in this one."

His hand was in her hair, and she thought she felt his fingers shaking. "No?"

She shook her head, and smiled to herself. "She has better things to do. Running her bar, among others. And she doesn't mind the waiting. She's good at that. He'll be late, of course — he's the type to be late."

"God. He's some rogue, this guy."

"Mm. And after already keeping her waiting so long. She'll be cross."

"But she'll forgive him?"

"Of course." She pressed her cheek over his heart, closing her eyes as she picked out the steady rhythm. The pulse of the ship. "She's got a world of patience for him."

She felt his fingers tangle in her hair, brushing against the back of her neck, before pressing her close. "Even if it's been ten years?"

"Even if it's been a _lifetime_."

 

—

 

Ben lifted his head at the muffled sound as it lifted into the night, the slight disturbance rocking against the quiet, and shook his head, a smile pulling at the corner of his mouth quite despite himself. It didn't feel like a night for smiling, and yet...

"Been a long time since I heard Cap laugh like that," Yasopp remarked from beside him, removing a cigarette from his lips and breathing out a lungful of smoke.

Ben said nothing, only gave a nod of his head in silent affirmation. Cheerful as their captain usually was, Yasopp was correct in his observation. He listened for the sound again, but the night sat, wholly undisturbed now but for their quiet conversation where they stood, on the ridge overlooking the port.

There was a pensive quality to his companion's mien, despite the lightness of his previous remark, and Ben raised a brow in silent query. Yasopp shrugged, the gesture awkward, suggesting wariness even before he said, "I'm just thinking. Hope he doesn't leave her with an unnecessary burden." The look he gave Ben was meaningful. "Lass doesn't deserve what that's going to bring her, young and unmarried."

Ben cut him a sidelong glance. "For all his forgetfulness, he isn't careless."

Yasopp nodded, but the tension in his shoulders didn't give out, and Ben knew he was thinking about his own wife and son. And for all his blustering stories and endless digressions, Ben knew Yasopp well enough to realise there was more to his eager bragging than just fatherly pride. There was regret too, for leaving — regret and guilt in equal measure. Most people just didn't know how to spot it, but then misdirection was a particular skill of Yasopp's.

"She got him pretty good, huh?" Yasopp asked then, lips quirking upwards.

Ben's smile was smaller, but no less genuine. "That would be putting it mildly."

"Poor bastard."

"He had it coming. Saw it the day they met."

"Cap's always had an eye for pretty girls, though," Yasopp pointed out. "What made you think she was different?"

"Because the last time he laughed like _that,"_ Ben said, with a nod to the docks, silent now under the thrall of the balmy night, "was when she told him to order his drink or get out of her doorway. Pair that attitude up with those eyes..." he trailed off, shaking his head.

Yasopp gave him a keenly searching look. "Charmed quite a few of us with those things, didn't she?"

Ben ignored his pointed stare and the underlying suggestion, and rested his eyes instead on the ship. And Yasopp said nothing else, but nodded to himself, as though he'd gotten his answer after all. Putting the cigarette back to his lips, he took another drag. It wasn't often he indulged, but their imminent departure had had its effect on the crew in different ways.

"You still sure he's serious about coming back? A decade is a damn long time to keep a woman waiting, and it's not like they're married. And wouldn't it be safer for her to just stay here anyhow?"

Ben said nothing at first, just kept his gaze fixed on the docks and the ever-darkening horizon in the distance, weighing his words. Behind them the village sprawled, suffused in a familiar quiet, windmills dotting the sloping hillside into the mainland. The only lights visible among the creeping shadows were from the tavern, the lanterns outside swaying in the soft breeze. The captain's absence was evident in the lack of noise drifting out from the establishment, but if he concentrated Ben could make out the soft murmurs on the air. There was no celebratory mood among the men tonight.

After a long lull, he finally spoke, putting words to the thoughts he'd been contemplating for the past hour, "Captain told me something once."

Yasopp raised his eyes, intrigue flitting across his features, but Ben wasn't looking at him. "Back from his Oro Jackson days," he continued. "He told me how Roger had this island that he'd visit, from time to time. He never said why, but there was a rumour aboard the ship." He gave his companion a significant look.

Yasopp's brows arched with understanding. "A woman?"

Ben shrugged. "Maybe. As far as the rumours went, anyhow." But the twist to his smile was verification enough.

"What happened to her?" Yasopp asked then. "After the execution, I mean. The Government issued that manhunt, didn't they? Tried to track down anyone who'd had so much as a drink with the man..." But something crept into his tone as he spoke, as though he was catching on to where Ben was heading.

Ben turned his gaze back to the horizon, leaving Yasopp's question hanging between them, heavy like the anchor rooting the ship to the bottom of the port. The implication was an acrid taste on his tongue, now more than ever, and he caught Yasopp's muted curse as it fell into the quiet. The world wasn't a fair place, least of all for those who gave their hearts to pirates.

Yasopp said nothing for a long moment, seeming lost in thought. The subject wasn't a comforting one, and rang much too close to home with regards to their own captain, but despite the underlying implications, Ben had had a different intention in telling the story.

After a laden silence, he continued, "Roger never brought her aboard the Jackson on his travels. Probably thought it was too dangerous. The saner choice, maybe, but Captain said he'd always privately disagreed. After Roger's death, the ones who could have protected her would have been the crew." He turned to look at Yasopp, raising his brows to underline his point.

He inhaled sharply, catching on. "Ah." Then, this time with understanding, "So, ten years?"

Ben nodded, eyes once again drifting down towards the ship anchored at the docks, the dragon figurehead a looming shadow in the night.

"Ten years."

 


	14. the pages in-between

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Snippet at the beginning is from Cara Dillon's cover of "The Parting Glass" (which is oh-so-lovely, and so very fitting for this story and this chapter in particular)

a man may drink and not be drunk / a man may fight and not be slain  
a man may court a pretty girl

and perhaps be welcomed back again

 

* * *

 

 

The day of their departure dawned with clear skies and a hangover, the slight pressure behind her brow softened by the kiss tucked against her temple, before she felt the mattress shifting and Shanks’ warmth leaving her.

Drawing her legs up, Makino didn’t move to follow immediately, choosing instead to bury her face in the pillow as she listened to his quiet rummaging — the sounds of the movements she could pin an action to with her eyes closed. She knew his routines like she did her own now; knew his pace, and the still-awkward pauses that accompanied the compensations he had to make for his lone arm. She heard the rustle of fabric, and the soft, laughing oath slipped under his breath, punctuating momentary struggle with his pants.

She usually helped him with his shirt, but there was a thought now, a pang of some curious feeling deep in her chest, that he’d have to manage on his own after today, and she curled in on herself, tugging the sheet up, tempted by the stubbornly futile wish that if she stayed in bed then nothing would change.

Fingers by her ear then, brushing some of her hair away, and, “Breakfast in the galley,” came the murmur, and she felt his smile curving against her temple. “I could bring it to you here, but I think the guys would appreciate it more if I didn’t completely commandeer your attentions today.”

She turned her face on the pillow, looking up at him. And she had to look like quite the sight, the cheerful hangover leaving her mouth dry, and she didn’t need a mirror to know that her hair was a mess, although from the way Shanks was looking at her, grin shamelessly adoring and eyes curved at the corners, it was surprisingly easy to forget all those things.

“What?” he asked, noticing her look, a soft chuckle wrapped around the word. “Did I put my shirt on backward agai—”

She was mindful of his shoulder as she pushed up to wind her arms around his neck, his surprise escaping him in a loud, startled laugh, before she set about unravelling his morning routines, the unbuttoned shirt chucked without regret, and the pants following shortly after, although his protests were as half-hearted as the apologies she kissed against his mouth.

“There won’t be any bacon left at this rate,” Shanks murmured into the crook of her neck, and Makino laughed.

“It’s either food or sex with you, I swear.”

She felt his grin. “I know which one I’d choose, if I had to.”

“You’d starve to death, you mean?”

“If you were the alternative? Easily.”

“You’re impossible.”

“I’m sorry, but who was already dressed and ready for breakfast when _someone_ seduced him back into bed? And you know I’ll be the one blamed if we’re late, but if they only _knew—_ ”

She swallowed his cheek with a deep kiss, hands buried in his hair as she pulled him as close as he’d come, until she couldn’t feel anything but him, the warm hand against her back anchoring her and the sensation of being filled drove her breath from her lungs, and every last thought of what awaited beyond the cabin door from her mind.

And she didn’t think about the fact that the ship wasn’t empty now — ignored the muffled footsteps on the deck outside and the voices sitting under the morning quiet as they filled it with their own sounds; his laughter the most prominent, as always.

After, she buttoned his shirt — took her time, relishing in their proximity and that unique intimacy found in helping someone dress, touches lingering a little longer and every action deliberate, if slightly distracted by the grinning kisses against her shoulder.

She buttoned it halfway up, the way he preferred it, and laughed when he kissed her fingers and made for the door, wearing an entirely too-telling grin. But in that moment, watching him from the warm safety of his bunk, Makino didn’t care what the crew thought. She had no intentions of downplaying her feelings about their departure, and least of all around Shanks.

And if that meant walking into the galley with her cheeks still flushed and her hair a screaming testament to what had made them late for breakfast because she couldn’t figure out where her kerchief had disappeared off to, then so be it.

It would be a warm day, and the breeze from the open porthole was a small blessing, the salt-tinged sea mingling with the now-familiar smell of them where it clung to the pillow and the sheets, although it offered no more comfort beyond a momentary relief, carrying a damning promise with the first slant of sunlight across the planks.

She tried not to think about the fact that she’d been hoping for a storm — to postpone their leaving for one more day, or even just a few more hours. But the East Blue wasn't the Grand Line, and freak storms didn't just happen out of nowhere, especially if you wished for them.

She pilfered one of his shirts — rolled the sleeves up and tied it closed at the front. It still tempted at indecency, the top button sitting just a little too low for comfort, but she ignored it, and when she entered the galley she lifted her chin and breezed past the knowing smiles, the widest of which was their captain’s. But Shanks didn’t mention her blatant thievery, and Makino didn't voice her suspicions of his own, with her favourite kerchief still nowhere to be found.

And despite the shared knowledge of what awaited them after breakfast, it was a loud and cheerful affair, and for a few blessed hours she was too busy laughing to remember to feel sad.

After that, the rest of the morning went by in a blur. Released from the strange, timeless limbo that had marked her last morning aboard his ship, the hours fled in a flurry of preparations, and faced with the acute realisation of  _this is it,_  Makino let it take her, suddenly afraid of what would happen if she remained idle — that if she didn’t keep her hands and thoughts busy, she’d just…stop.

And so she made sure they had everything ready for their voyage — that they were properly stocked with food, and alcohol, and that Doc had the necessary medical supplies. They weren't just sailing the Blues this time; they were setting sail for the Grand Line, and that meant a lot more preparation; not just for the ship, but the whole crew.

Suzume helped, surprisingly without complaint, but Makino didn't trust her voice to convey her gratitude without letting something else slip, like the grief that had coiled itself like an anchor’s rope around her heart, weighing it down.

Of course, the old woman’s idea of ‘help’ wasn’t to carry supplies, although Makino didn’t know why she’d expected anything else than what she got.

“Here,” Suzume said, shoving a flask into Makino’s hand, when she’d spent a moment too long watching the wharf, and the pirates loading the supplies onto the ship. “This stuff'll put Red’s strongest vintage to shame,” she explained, at Makino’s confused look. Then, hard expression easing a bit, “You look like you could use a shot.”

A year ago she might have balked at the suggestion, but now Makino looked at the ship, then back at Suzume, before dropping her eyes to the silver flask tucked between her palms.

Uncorking it, she tossed back a mouthful, grimacing at the sharp taste as it burned a trail of fire down the back of her throat. But she didn’t cough it back up, only swallowed with stubborn dignity, and when she wordlessly handed the flask back, Suzume was grinning.

“He’s been teaching you how to drink, I see,” she mused. Then with a snort that Makino was almost tempted to call soft, “Good lad.”

A gnarled hand on her back then, nudging her none-too-gently towards the wharf, and she felt her legs carrying her down the slope, as though her body knew she didn't have the mind to think about her actions today. The lingering taste of the drink sat on her tongue, the unforgiving heat of it easing into a kinder warmth in her gut with every step, and allowing the heavy weight of the anchor in her chest to yield a little. Enough for her to breathe, if nothing else.

Manoeuvring between the pirates and villagers crowding the docks, she felt the din of their eager voices rising like a wave around her — always growing but never breaking, remaining instead at the very edge of her hearing. A necessity, because she couldn’t take their questions right now; couldn’t bear having to fake her cheer and shrug her shoulders with an  _I don’t know when they’re coming back, maybe a month or so?_

She couldn’t tell them the truth, because if she put words to it she knew what would greet her — those knowing looks, or worse,  _sympathy_. And when that happened the wave would take her, and drown her where she stood.

And she couldn't afford to drown. Not right now, anyway. Later, maybe, she'd allow herself to feel _,_  but not right now.

The sound of his laughter cut through the muted din, clear like the cry of a gull over the sea roaring in her ears, pulling at her heartstrings despite her efforts to keep herself from shattering on the rocks.

She almost faltered in her step, but the grip on her elbow steadied her. It wasn’t comforting, but the surety it offered allowed Makino to claim a deep breath, before Suzume gave her a small push forward.

Shanks caught sight of her through the crowd, and even though the smile on his face didn't so much as waver, the look in his eyes told her — reassured her, if there’d ever been any doubt left to banish — that he was far from cheerful. A pace away, Luffy huddled, hands pressed down over an oversized straw-hat Makino had seen on so many occasions. She felt an odd swell of feeling at the sight, and her gaze flickered back to the hat's previous owner.

Having noticed her approach, the crew gave her a wide berth, nudging some of the villagers out of the way as Makino moved forward, trying her best to ignore the countless eyes on her back. Someone called out that they needed to clear the docks so they could get the last crates on board, although as the villagers moved to do just that, the crew simply drew back, leaving the two of them in the quiet shade of the ship's hull.

Makino paused, suddenly at a loss; every thought she’d ever entertained about how to tackle this situation fleeing, and leaving her with nothing. And she had no idea how one went about saying goodbye this way. They'd talked it over — had exhausted the subject of separation and all it entailed, so now that they were faced with the actual farewell, she had no idea what to say.

She drew a breath, allowing the sea air to fill her lungs to bursting, and when she let it out Shanks had taken a step forward, the two fluid motions gliding into each other like a rehearsed routine. His hand splayed over the crown of her head, pressing her close as she sank into the embrace with a shuddering exhale, arms reaching up to wind around his midsection.

The silence persisted, tucked between the gentle push of the waves against the wharf and the cries of the gulls circling overhead, their embrace marking the beginning of their ten-year distance. Like the lengthening thread of a spinning loom, she felt it growing between them already, mapping the course that was set, from her safe little port to the sea beyond the Red Line.

It seemed silly, almost.  _Ten years._  Like it wouldn't be that long — like they would come back in a month, as they always had, and she wouldn't even have time to wait. Silly, like when someone says 'everyone dies eventually', and everyone agrees but no one understands _;_  at least not until it's upon you, the whole, merciless reality of it.

Makino wondered how long it would take her to fully understand just how long a time ten years actually was.

She felt Shanks let out a breath — felt the steady heartbeat under her ear, and heard the rustle of his cloak as he shifted, pulling her closer. The arm holding her was strong, and his back straight, as though he'd never been bedridden in his life.

"Ha," she heard then, a soft exhale against her ear.

"What?" she murmured, because she was loath to break the silence. Like the quiet morning in his cabin, the silence didn't mention things like  _ten years_  and  _coming back_. In the silence and the ship’s shadow, it was just the two of them; no impending departure, and no decade of waiting.

The hand on her head didn't loosen its grip, and she heard the rumble of his voice from where her ear was pressed against his chest. "Rumour's already out about the arm. Figured something like that wouldn't stay quiet for long,” he said, before adding, wryly, "Hope the sea king had a satisfying meal, at least."

The laughter bubbled up quite despite herself; as familiar as she was with his ill-timed humour, it never ceased to catch her off guard. "Is this you trying to look on the bright side of things?”

She felt him laughing, but the sound was too soft, and the hand cupping the back of her head slid lower, to rest against her neck. “I’m an incurable optimist, Makino. There’s a bright side to everything.” There was a beat, and then, the intent sitting in his voice emphasised by the slight tightening of his grip around her, “Well. Maybe not  _everything_.”

Makino swallowed the knot in her throat, and said nothing — couldn’t have found the words if she’d looked for them, and Shanks fell quiet. Then, "I don't make a habit of leaving parts of me behind, you know,” he said.

She frowned at the strange remark, although she knew he couldn’t see it. "No one ever does," she said. "The arm—"

"You'll take good care of it, right?" he asked, cutting her off. "Told the kid to look after the hat, but I'm taking my expectations with a grain of salt. You said it takes a magnet for trouble to know one, so I’m banking on that hat going through a few more ordeals than it has in my care. Although I guess that's the way it should be.” He chuckled softly, and she felt the warm pressure of his hand lifting from the back of her neck. "But you'll take care of what I left you."

She blinked, thoroughly lost, as Shanks drew back to look at her. "You're— not talking about the arm, right?" she asked, uncertainly, as she looked up to meet his gaze.

He laughed at that, and not a soft sound this time. Now it was the kind of laughter she'd come to associate with him, unabashed and loud. A perfect reflection of himself.

He shook his head then, but before she could put words to her confusion he'd reached down to take one of her hands. "Not exactly what I was referring to," he murmured, as he brought it up, her fingers slack and curled together where he placed it against his chest, over his heart.

Her breath caught, but he only tilted his head, seeming entirely unperturbed by the magnitude of the gesture. "I had one arm to spare, but I've only got one of these," he said. "Take care of it, though I don't doubt that you will."

Makino felt her mouth working, but it was hard locating her voice. "Shanks—"

He grinned, but then his expression turned oddly serious. "I'm not out to find One Piece. I've got everything I need, but that doesn't mean where we're going will be any less dangerous."

Already having gathered that much, Makino only nodded, and he continued, fingers tightening around the hand he still held pressed to his heart. "The guys know what to do, if anything ever happens to me."

Her eyes flew open at that, but before she could voice her protest, he shook his head. "It's possible, and I’d rather you be prepared. But," and now a wry smile tugged at his mouth, "I'll try my best to stay alive. And dress with the weather."

Despite his attempt at lightening the mood, Makino felt tears pressing against her eyes. "You'd better."

His grin turned wicked with delight. "That an order?"

Her laugh held a sob. "I didn't know you could order captains around," she countered, tilting her head as she looked up at him. "Consider it…advice."

That had him throwing his head back, the way he did with so little effort. She didn't know anyone who could laugh quite like that.

Meeting her gaze again, his eyes were gleaming. "Whatever you call it, my girl, that sounds like an order." He shook his head. “Ten years from now the guys won't know what hit them. Or I won't. Should I be worried my position is being challenged?"

Her grin was a wavering thing, but, "There are perks to being the captain," she mused. “Or so I’ve heard.”

"Oh yeah?" Shanks hummed, warm fingers squeezing hers, and she felt the gesture deep in her gut. The ebb and flow of easy banter that had been such a startling discovery at first now felt like the easiest thing in the world. She wondered what she’d do without it. “Well, you know I don’t mind you bossing me around,” he said. Then with a wink, “I could probably get used to it outside the bedroom.”

She pinched him for that, and when he laughed she felt it; the rousing sound of it seeming to expand, bright and warm in the cool shade thrown by the looming hull, until it had chased off the last, still-lingering traces of grief.

He brought her hand up then, to brush a kiss against her knuckles, the way he'd done the day they'd first met. The scrape of his stubble almost felt more tender than the kiss, and he tightened his grip on her fingers, no doubt feeling how badly they were shaking.

"Strange," he said then, the words pressed to her knuckles, along with that too-clever smile that promised mischief in the making. His eyes were fixed on the crown of her head. "Seeing you with your hair loose. In public, that is. I've seen you with your hair loose plenty of times."

Ignoring the intimate quip, Makino pursed her mouth to hide her own smile, realising just what he was implying. "For some reason I couldn't find my kerchief this morning," she said. "You know the one, with the flowers? You wouldn't happen to know where it might be?"

"Hmm, hard to say," Shanks mused. "You have so many of those things, I'm not even sure I know which one you're talking about. Flowers?"

"My favourite," Makino said. "Come to think of it, it was the one I was wearing when we met."

"Yeah? Shame to lose that, then. If it's your favourite."

She hummed. "I'll live with the loss. Like you said, I have a lot of them." She hadn't dropped his gaze, and Shanks was still holding her hand, thumb brushing back and forth over the arch of her knuckles. "There are worse things to lose."

His expression softened, even as his smile remained, that quietly mischievous thing. "You're right in that." Then, cocking his head, "You know, I think I read somewhere that handkerchiefs are common favours. For ladies to offer their men."

"To knights fighting for their honour, maybe," Makino said, not missing a beat. "But to a pirate?"

"Why not? If the lady doesn't mind being a little unconventional."

"She doesn't. But does this mean the pirate is admitting to stealing said handkerchief?"

His grin was a boyish flash of teeth. _"Stealing?_ God, no. What a scoundrel he'd be if that was the case. Especially given that it's her favourite." Then, his eyes glittering, "But hypothetically, say he finds it."

"Hypothetically, hmm?"

"Yeah. Do you think the lady would mind?"

Her cheeks hurt from trying to hide her smile, so she gave up. "I think the lady would remind her scoundrel that he shouldn't be teasing  _her_  for being romantic, but no," she said, "she wouldn't mind it being a favour. I actually think she'd find it very sweet. Hypothetically, of course."

Shanks grinned. "Of course."

"She'd also remind him that very few people can pull off floral patterns."

That got her a raised brow. "I think the scoundrel senses a challenge."

Makino shook her head, but couldn't hold back her laughter, and didn't even bother trying. Her heart felt light, like the anchor had never been there, and when she looked at Shanks and found him watching her, fingers still wrapped around hers and his grin wholly ridiculous, it was hard to remember what sadness even felt like.

"So," he said then. "Any requests?"

Makino blinked. "Requests?"

He shrugged. "If I should by some stroke of luck find myself in the possession of a book or two, what would you like? More daring adventures? Or maybe an addition or two to that delightfully lewd series you keep trying to hide from me.”

She spluttered. “Excuse me—  _lewd_? It’s not lewd!”

“Oh no? I’m pretty sure I found five different euphemisms for the male genitalia just leafing through a random chapter.” He raised a brow. “On that note, if you ever do write that book about me, be  _generous_.”

She didn’t even stop to marvel at how easy her smile came, or how quickly her laughter. “Making demands, Captain?”

“A request,” he told her glibly, dark eyes bright with familiar cheek. “But unless you’re out to tarnish my reputation with false claims about the size of my  _bounty—_ ”

Makino groaned. “I can’t believe Suzumetold you."

“—I can only assume you’ll be honest, as I know for a fact that you can’t lie. And I’ve heard no complaints where that’s concerned. Unless you've been holding out on me?”

She sighed a helpless laugh. “I don’t think you need to worry."

"About which one?" Shanks asked. "That you've been holding out on me, or that you'll skimp on your descriptions of my—"

"If there's a pirate-related euphemism on its way out of your mouth, I’ll pinch you," Makino warned. Then, when he pressed his lips together, completely failing to stifle his smile, "And I was referring to both, although I think you already knew the answer to the first one." She tried to keep her gaze level, even with the entirely shameless grin that had overtaken his face now. "And if I ever did write a book about you, it would be pretty chaste. And the truth.” She allowed her own smile to lift a bit, a small, private thing. “Well. I might include a velvet waistcoat or two.”

Shanks' grin hadn't lessened one bit. “Good. Because I know some people who’d never let me live it down, were my name to be misused in such a way."

Makino knew her look was far too innocent, by the way his grin widened even further. "And however would I go about doing that,  _Captain_?"

He rolled his eyes, but like the sigh he let slip, the gesture was entirely fond. "Of course you’d use the title. It'd drive your readers crazy, no doubt. I can see it now, the hot topic of discussion across the Blues — _just who is the infamous 'Captain'_?"

The laugh that dragged from her didn’t hold a trace of grief this time. And like a well-preserved secret kept out of the way of prying eyes, or a wine reserved for special occasions, she spoke his name, the syllables a familiar taste on her tongue for all that she rarely spoke them together, finding the title easier, maybe; a lingering trace of an old habit seeking to keep him at arm's length, afraid of what her heart might do if she didn't.

But she'd long since yielded that fight and her heart both, and so, " _Shanks,_ " she said, and watched as the sound of it settled, a visible reaction.

The sun warmed at her back, the light catching in his ridiculous hair, and dappled shadows thrown across his features. Her eyes traced the angles of his face like inked lines in a well-loved novel, etching the image into her memory — the shape of his nose, and the arch of his brow. The tender quirk of that expressive mouth, and the stubble dusting his chin. Small things, and she wondered how long she'd remember them all; if he'd look different when she saw him next.

She breathed in, pushing the thought away and letting the sounds of the busy wharf fade to something soft at the very edge of her awareness, and when she lifted up on her toes this time he was there to meet her. There was no misjudging the distance, and they covered it in a breath, a seamless movement like the smooth turn of a page, or the swell of a wave against the hull.

Fingers buried in the fabric of his cloak, she felt his own lift to cup her cheek, sketching the outline of her jaw before curving around the back of her head, the grip too hard to be tender. But she matched his desperation with her own, intent on leaving a mark — not a scar, because he had enough of those; but a memory so vivid that ten years wouldn't even dull the colour.

Breaking the kiss felt like it took more effort than anything she’d ever done, and she felt his hand against her back, easing her down until her heels touched the planks. But he didn’t pull away, and —  _I love you_ , Makino thought, but speaking the words seemed redundant, and so, "Come back to me," she said instead, her voice at once terribly soft, and as fierce as she'd ever heard it. An order this time, and it made no attempt at pretending to be anything else.

She felt his answer in the tightening of his arm around her, a silent promise that she tucked behind her heart, along with all the small intimacies that were hers and hers alone — like the sight of him first thing in the morning, half-draped across her and most of the bed in that graceless lack of shame, and the particular lilt of his laughter in those rare moments she'd catch him off guard. The scar running over his hip, and the one along his thigh; old memories of near-fatal wounds, but even if she didn’t know the stories, no one knew them like she did, or had kissed them like she had.

And lastly, the look in his eyes when he took her in, bared before him — not like a priceless treasure, but like an answer he didn't even know he'd sought, but had found regardless.

The moment was over far too soon, but she welcomed it when it came now, as they stepped back, the transition as smooth as the breath that had brought them together. Rough fingers curled around the dip of her chin, bringing her close, and his stubble brushed her forehead an inhale before his mouth did.  _Exhale,_  and his brow touched hers, pressed against it in quiet resignation—

—and then the din of the wharf washed over her again, and when she drew her next breath Shanks was turning away, shouting orders to the crew-members lingering on deck.

Makino turned her eyes away — dragged them from his shape moving down the wharf, and met Lucky's gaze looking down at her from above. She smiled, and he returned it, raising the piece of meat he always kept at hand, a silent salute. The gesture was echoed across the deck, one by one, and Makino felt the tears threatening as she lifted a trembling hand to her temple. A crew's good-bye to a fellow member. Her breath came a little harder, and she closed her eyes.

_Breathe. In. Out._ _You're fine._

"Makino."

She didn't meet Ben's gaze at once. Instead she breathed, and made herself stand a little straighter. Then with a smile, if only a little bit wavering, "Ben.”

He said nothing at first, but the calm familiarity of his presence helped put her mind at ease a bit, anchoring her fleeting thoughts to the present before they slipped through her fingers, along with her fragile composure.

"Have you finished preparing?” she asked then, when the silence had dragged on. She knew the answer already — felt it, in the silent planks under her feet, the docks no longer creaking under the weight of the morning’s preparations — but she didn’t lift her eyes to the deck. Instead she fixed them on the water lapping against the ship, and the barnacles dotting the curve of the hull.

Ben didn't offer a response to that, likely because he knew she was already aware, and because the time for forced pleasantries was over. So instead he countered, "Have you?"

Makino looked up at that, meeting his eyes. "I've said goodbye."

He arched a brow, managing to look amused as well as mildly reproachful at the same time. "For the time ahead," he emphasised. "And for whatever’s coming. Are you prepared?"

She realised what he was referring to, and felt her fingers curl against her palms. "Maybe not as well as I should be," she confessed.

This wasn't something she'd discussed with Shanks, at least not beyond her discomfort at his crew's first arrival in Fuschia. Pirate raids happened — she'd heard the stories; Garp’s tales, which inspired horror more than caution, and  _this is Fuschia and nothing ever happens here_ wasn't going to fly anymore.

Ben had voiced his concern once before, but she'd been reluctant to spare it too much thought, the reality an uncomfortable one and not exactly begging her consideration. The last time they'd had trouble, the crew had been there. In the nick of time, maybe, but there regardless. That would change, now.

"Ten years is a long time," she said then, because she didn't know how else to convey the feeling of hopelessness that clawed at her throat. Preparing meant acknowledging that they would no longer be there to offer their protection, and Makino knew she needed more time to come to terms with that conclusion.

 _More time,_ she thought. _You've got ten years' worth of time on your hands._

Ben nodded, but said nothing, and from his expression she couldn’t even hope to guess what he made of that remark, although she didn’t doubt he’d caught the things sitting in it — the uncertainty and the fear.

"What about you?" she asked then, when the thoughtful slant of his brow turned suddenly wary. He was watching the ship, although his gaze seemed to be looking beyond it. “You don't strike me as pirates who seek out trouble."  _And yet._

A wry smile tugged at his mouth, although it didn’t banish the frown completely, and she didn't doubt that he'd caught the underlying implication. "And yet we always seem to find it," he finished for her. "Or maybe it finds us."

Then, shifting his gaze to meet hers, the amusement colouring his words was gone, replaced with something else — something harder than his usual, ever-wry brand of seriousness. "Things won't be the same in ten years,” he told her, and when he looked at her Makino wondered suddenly what he saw. “Some pawns have yet to come into play, and the Grand Line never stays still." His look turned meaningful. "He's got a bigger role to play than he lets on."

Makino let her gaze drop, not sure exactly what he was saying, but suddenly afraid it was what she feared most — that what she was hoping for would eventually dwindle to a pipe dream, and that she would look back, ten years from now, and realise how naïve she’d been for believing. For waiting.

She feared Ben already knew what the most likely outcome would be. "Ben, if he doesn't—"

The hand on her shoulder startled her. For all his counsel, Ben wasn’t prone to physical actions to bring his point across. An arched brow often did the trick, and so Makino found her words fleeing as she looked up at him now, taking in the uncharacteristically determined expression that had settled across his features.

"Don't misunderstand me. He needs someone to keep him grounded. There's only so much  _we_  can do," he emphasised, and the last was added with a fleeting smile, before his look turned serious again. "But you should be prepared. Even this sea won’t stay the same."

She bit down on the inside of her cheek. "Ten years is a long time," she echoed. A lot could happen in less.

“Maybe,” Ben said, and when she blinked, he shrugged. “Is he worth it?”

“Yes,” she said, before she’d even had time to think.

His smile was a quick, strikingly genuine thing, devoid of its usual, wry edge. “Then you shouldn’t worry,” he said. “At least not about that. The idiot himself is another matter.”

Her laugh sounded wet, but she didn’t care. “You'll take care of him," Makino said, and was momentarily surprised at the strength in her voice. "All of you."

By the raised brows that met her, she figured she wasn't the only one, but the light in Ben’s eyes was cleverly knowing. "An order?"

This time, she nodded. "An order."

He chuckled. "I feel I should warn you. At this rate, you'll accidentally usurp him."

Her hum was innocently contemplative, despite the tears clinging to her lashes now. "Oh, nothing so drastic."

"And he calls me manipulative," Ben muttered, giving her a familiar smile — the one he so often gave to the man he publicly ridiculed, but would follow to the ends of the ocean.

There was a call from the deck then, and he looked up at the sky, mapping the position of the sun. Makino knew it for what it was — _time to depart —_  and steeled herself. When Ben looked back down, he held out a hand, a parting gesture which she promptly ignored, choosing instead to step forward and envelop him in a hug.

She felt him tense, the action having caught him off guard, and if the situation had been different Makino might have derived some pleasure from the fact. And it wasn’t like her to be forward like this, but she was too determined to be daunted by awkwardness now, and pushed back against it with surprising force of will.

"You're a good man, Ben Beckman,” she said, tightening her grip around his midsection. “He's lucky to have you."

She hoped that if her words couldn’t do it, her actions would convey her feelings — a year of fierce appreciation for his counsel; his wry honesty and unshakable stability. It didn't do him justice — she should have said something earlier — but just as the thought manifested, Makino felt his arms tighten around her in turn, almost hard enough to force the breath from her lungs.

He smelled of cigarette smoke, and it was an effort holding the tears back when he said, "Likewise, Makino."

She drew back, and wiped at her eyes.  _Damn it._ "Suzume will miss you," she said then, opting for levity, although she had a feeling the quaver in her voice ruined the attempt.

But Ben only smiled. "Give her my regards," he told her, with surprising earnestness. Then, with a familiar, dry lilt, "Along with my sincerest apologies that I wasn't around forty years ago," he added, but there was obvious fondness there that made her smile widen, despite the persisting tears.

"Goodbye, Ben."

He inclined his head. "Goodbye, Makino. Take care."

Then he was walking up the gangway, leaving her standing on the wharf. People had begun to crowd around her again, now that the anchor was being raised, but Makino paid them no mind, instead letting her eyes find refuge in the dark gaze regarding her from the deck.

A small hand reached up to grasp hers, uncharacteristically hesitant, and she curled her fingers around it in a fierce grip, breathing in deep as the coarse straw of Luffy's hat brushed against the skin of her arm. For once, he had no eager chatter to offer, only stood beside her as the ship drew away from the port, towards the horizon in the distance. The thread of their ten-year long distance spinning on its loom, ever-growing.

She held Shanks’ gaze until she could no longer make him out from the other shapes aboard the ship, and then she watched the ship until her eyes could no longer distinguish it from the endless expanse of sea and sky. She was only vaguely aware of the small hand leaving hers, and the muted din of the crowd slowly dispersing around her, but she didn't budge, resolutely keeping her back straight as she kept her gaze fixed on the empty horizon. The loom kept spinning.

Ten years was a _long_ time.

And for the first time since she'd gotten out of bed that morning, and the deftness of the fingers she could still feel the imprint of had drawn laughter from her lips, Makino let the tears fall in earnest. The fist-sized lump beneath her breast unwound, like an intricate sailor's knot suddenly loosened, and she felt more than heard the sob tear its way from her throat, dragging her body with it.

She didn’t realise she’d sunk to her knees until the planks greeted her weight without mercy, and there was an awareness at the back of her mind that if there was anyone still watching, she was making something of a scene, but she couldn’t have found it in herself to care.  _He had made it so easy not to care._

And so, almost recklessly, she allowed herself to make a scene, and to grieve — to finally mourn the fleeting memories of the day; the kiss against her temple that had first drawn her out of sleep, and the way he’d tucked her hand against his heart. Lucky's salute, and Ben’s parting embrace. The coarse straw of Luffy's hat against the skin of her arm, and the ship vanishing in the distance.

_Breathe. In. Out._

She wept, curled in on herself like a child as she gasped for air, lungs aching for respite from the sobs that tore holes in the calm countenance she'd kept up all day. But there was no respite, and she choked on her own breaths, the sea air filling her lungs like water, drowning her on land.

_Breathe. In. Out._

_You're **not fine**._

But she kept breathing anyway.

 

—

 

"Kid."

She didn't lift her head to acknowledge the address, and she heard the raspy sigh, before the shuffling of feet and the soft creak of the planks signalled the old woman’s approach. Suzume came to stand beside her, and Makino jumped when something heavy was unceremoniously dropped over her shoulders, and she looked down to find the dark fabric of a familiar cloak pooling around her.

When she looked up — “Found it on your bed, all nicely folded,” Suzume said, one brow arched and her look entirely knowing. “Pretty forgetful, that pirate of yours. Surprised he didn’t forget his whole damn ship while he was at it.”

The weight of it was warm over her back, the familiar smell clinging to the collar achingly welcome, and when she curled shaking fingers in the fabric, the sob that pushed up her throat dragged a laugh with it. “He’s terrible.”

A sharp smile pulled at that hard mouth. “Good for something, though. It’s getting cold out. He had more foresight than you, anyhow.”

The implication was as stark as the voice that offered it, and Makino didn’t have to look at the dark horizon to hear what she was really saying.  _Time to go back inside, and move on._

She pulled Shanks’ cloak closer. “Yeah.”

"Garp's brat was worried about you."

She started, and — gods, absorbed in her own grief, she'd completely forgotten about  _Luffy_. But before she could open her mouth, Suzume held up a hand. "I fed him and sent him to bed. Doesn't take much more than food to keep that one still." She snorted, and shook her head. "He's Garp's grandson, alright."

Makino looked down on herself, half-shrouded in the cloak, but the weight of regret was suddenly heavier than the fabric. She'd promised herself she wouldn't react this way — that she'd move on with her life, and get back to a semblance of normality once they'd left.

But it had been a lot easier convincing herself of that when he'd been there with her, his presence tangible at her side, and not just a memory that she was afraid would dull if she didn't keep it at the forefront of her mind. And wrapped up in her thoughts, she'd forgotten about the one person she was supposed to be looking out for; the one she was responsible for — the one she'd  _stayed_   _for._

"Oh wipe that sorry look off your face," Suzume snapped, and Makino blinked, glancing up, only to be met with an expression that told her plainly it had no patience for her wallowing. "I said the brat was  _worried,_  not dead. He’s a tough little thing, and he can handle himself so long that someone feeds him."

Makino shook her head. "He's  _seven_. He shouldn't have to take care of himself. And I shouldn't be sitting here—"

"You know what he said when I stopped by the bar looking for you?"

Makino blinked, caught off guard by the sudden question. "Luffy?"

Suzume gave her a droll look. "Said you were down by the docks, and that you probably wanted to be alone for a bit, because you were sad the captain had left. Not the crew — the  _captain_." She snorted. "Brat's more perceptive than I'd given him credit. Mah, he’s Garp’s in that as well, I guess."

Closing her mouth, Makino couldn’t even manage a response, but Suzume didn’t seem to be waiting for one. "Might not have picked up on the finer points of why you’re so upset,” she drawled, old eyes twinkling with amusement. “Then again, he’s seven. And again,  _Garp’s_. But the kid's got good instincts as far as people's hearts are concerned. Will serve him well, that."

Wiping at her eyes, Makino felt a smile push through the grief, remembering a hectic night, and more questions tumbling off an eager tongue than she’d thought anyone had patience to answer. Shanks hadn't even batted an eye. "He trusts easily."

"True. Heard he warmed to Red pretty quick."

Makino nodded, hugging the cloak closer. "The Captain— Shanks left his hat with him."

"That right?" It was asked musingly, and there was a strange note in her voice that Makino didn’t recognise — and it didn’t make more sense when she looked up, only to find a curiously knowing smile on a weathered old face that looked suddenly, startlingly _young_. "That old straw thing, huh? Some gift.”

Makino shook her head. "That hat has seen more adventure than you think," she said, remembering. She wondered if Shanks had been aware of all the stories Ben had been telling her behind his back, of his less-than-glamorous career as a cabin-boy on one of the most famous ships in history. She doubted it, but then Ben had a penchant for breaking rules and getting away with it.

Suzume snorted, amusement rolling over the words despite the raspy quality of her voice, "So let me guess — we'll have a scrawny, straw-hat wearing Pirate King on our hands in ten years’ time?" She shook her head. "Shame I'll be dead by then. Would be nice with more exciting news from abroad than tax increases."

"Suzume-san! What are you sa— you're barely seventy!"

Suzume shrugged. "I'm old, kid. And tired." She looked down, meeting Makino’s incredulous expression, and sighed dramatically. "Oh,  _fine._ I promise I won’t kick it for another ten years. Got to make sure you make it and whatnot.” Then, the corner of her mouth quirking, "And I guess it wouldn't hurt to go with a man like Red around." She cut Makino a look. "So he better come back."

The cloak rested, comfortingly heavy over her shoulders, and Makino nodded. "Ten years."

"I'll bet my shop that he's late.”

"I won't take that bet."

"You sure? Gotta have someone to take over the bar when you go off adventuring on the high seas. Only fitting that it should be me."

"Weren't you supposed to hold on for another ten years only?" Makino asked.

Suzume shrugged. "I might be persuaded otherwise, with the right incentive. Like, say,  _a bar_."

Makino sighed a laugh. “You’re awful.”

"Maybe. But you're considering it."

Makino shook her head, and the quick remark that came to her was  _his_ , but she wrapped it with a smile when she said, quietly, "God help me, but I am."

She looked towards the darkening horizon, the pink sky stained with purple bruises. There was a slight chill in the air now, compared to the humid heat of the night before. The breeze bit into her skin, colder than it should be even with the cloak wrapped around her, and she wondered idly how long she'd been sitting there. She should go back inside, take a warm bath and go to bed. Get back up in the morning and go on living.

"I should get back to Party's," Makino said then, putting the thoughts in different words, although she wasn't sure who she was speaking them to — the sea, maybe, as though she could somehow relay the message.

And as though having sensed she wasn’t the one being addressed, Suzume made no effort to reply, but turned on her heel, ready to walk back up to the village. Makino made no immediate move to follow, but she heard the older woman stop at the top of the slope. Gaze still fixed on the far horizon, she took a moment to breathe. Once, twice.  _You're fine._

Tucking the cloak around her, she pushed to her feet, and with a smile pressed into the collar, she turned away from the sea, and her place of silent vigil. There was a warm bath awaiting her, and a warm bed. She’d have to re-learn how to sleep without him, on a mattress that was too large and with no soft snores to chase her off to sleep, but she’d manage, somehow — would make the best of the situation, as it had been put before her.

She thought about the book on her nightstand — the one she’d read twice already, and that she hadn’t thought she could bear to look at when he left. But the urge asserted itself now, to read it again, seeking the scenes he’d liked, and his right-handed chicken-scratch in the margins, correcting the terms — ‘ _Outside her maiden voyage, ‘the’ should only be used if it’s actually part of the ship’s name, how is this so hard to get?’ —_ and further down, in a cheerful scrawl, and in which she could practically  _hear_  the wink,  _‘That said, 'Temptress' is a wicked cool name for a ship.’_

Closing her eyes, she let the sea air fill her lungs, no resistance meeting it now, and when she let it back out she allowed her shoulders to sink with the exhale. And as she set off towards the village, she let her thoughts wander, away from the sea at her back and to another one, already knowing the page number by heart, and the words that she’d read, impressing them into the quiet of his cabin—

_—treacherous tides sought to make his homecoming a hard one, the sea like a scorned lover; vicious, jealous—_

"Suzume-san, would you like a drink before you retire?"

_—stubborn in her relentless endeavours, and no heart for a weary voyager longing for peace—_

"I’m guessing that by ‘retire’ you mean for the night and not for good, although I wouldn’t say no to a drink before that, either. A bottoms up before I do the same. Or something like that. Might actually be tits up, now that I think about it. I'm old, so I'll probably go in my sleep, unless there’s a man around that would do the honours. In which case, bottoms up might be right.”

_—but his will was no less fierce, no less vicious. An extension of his own self, the Temptress cut through the obstacles in her path—_

“I’m rescinding my invitation if all you’re going to talk about is your impending death.”

_—and the voyager’s heart sat, steady and sure, lifted once again by that beckoning lilt. A different lover than the sea, his safe port—_

" _Fine_ , I’ll keep the gallows’ talk to a minimum. I’m guessing Red’s bedroom achievements are off the table, too? Or on the table, if I’ve got him pegged right. Hah! Shameless brat. Oh, don't look at me like that, Ma- _chan,_  I’m not the one who spent the morning waltzing around in my lover’s shirt. Yeah, I  _saw_ , what did you think you were being subtle? But alright, I won’t ask. Mind you, I’m only being gracious so I can keep an eye on you, make sure you don’t go off your rocker tonight. Oh, and  _that_  reminds me — have I got some stories to tell you about your dear old lady! Drunk herself out of her mind the night he left. 'Course, you've got more sense than that. Well, at least I thought you did, but the way you tossed back that drink this morning, I might have to reconsider my impression of you. Or maybe just consider that Red's been a damn better influence than I'd given him credit—”

The steady rhythm of the rough voice wrapping around her rooted Makino’s fleeting thoughts to the ground — to her land-bound life; what it was and always had been, and what it would continue to be, at least for the foreseeable future.

But she thought about the book on her nightstand; the contradiction of the priceless binding and the scribbled notes in the margins, and the many dog-eared pages. A collector would call it blasphemy — defilement, even, but in Makino’s experience, truly beautiful things could never be ruined by showing signs of wear, be it scars or laugh-lines, bent corners or small, intimate messages.

_—and with his course set to a familiar melody—_

(above which sat the note, as much part of the narrative now as the story itself, and she could hear his voice clearly — ' _Have you caught on yet to why I like the imagery in this so much?’_ )

_—the voyager heeded it, no resistance offered now and no regrets, the truth of his heart’s desire offered in earnest, and echoed back across the water, in the gentle notes of the siren song calling him home._

 


	15. right your spine, brace your heart

Garp showed up already the next morning.

Makino had often wondered how the crew had managed to avoid the marine’s impromptu visits, sometimes setting sail just hours before a Government ship was spotted on the horizon. And Garp would seem none the wiser, although she knew for a fact that part of the reason for his sporadic-yet-frequent visits was to check up on her.

She didn't know if he'd picked up on it yet, or if he'd heard word about it in the village, but she figured that it didn’t matter anymore if he had. They weren't coming back. Not for a long time.

And besides, in light of Luffy's... _predicament_ , Makino doubted Garp would have much mind to spare for her own affairs.

**_—CRACK!_ **

The sight of the fissures shooting through her wall would have made her wince even if the sound hadn’t already, and Makino watched as Luffy ducked to evade a second blow, escaping by the skin of his teeth — which meant her establishment suffered it in his stead, and she opened her mouth to protest.

"Garp-san—"

"Damnit, Luffy, get back here!"

There was a tug at her skirt as the boy ducked behind her, small hands gripping her apron strings. Looking down, she expected to find him cowering, and so was surprised to find him levelling a glare at his fuming grandfather, busy extracting his fist from the hole in Makino’s wall. "No!"

Garp rumbled low in his throat, the deceptively gentle mirth of one who knows better and is about to prove why, and despite his bravado, Makino felt the grip on her apron tighten a fraction.

"Garp-san," she interjected, gently but firmly. "Don't you think he's been punished enough?" In her opinion, the whole ordeal with the bandits and the sea king had been more than sufficient, but Garp wasn't quite of the same mind.

"A devil fruit, Makino!" he thundered. "A thrice-cursed  _devil fruit_!"

She levelled him with a look. "Most of the highest-ranking officers in the navy have devil fruit abilities," she reminded him, nudging him subtly onto a different conversational path. For as long as she’d known the boy, Garp had talked about making a marine of his grandson. If she could somehow steer his attention away from the fact that he'd eaten a devil fruit in the first place, and make him focus on what said devil fruit could be used for...

 _Oh, my cunning girl_ , she could almost hear the warm laugh, and for a moment it stole her breath. _You’d make one formidable pirate._

She saw some of the tension in Garp’s brow lift, as though the realisation of the boy's newfound potential was dawning on him, and despite the implication — an even harder training regimen than before — Makino felt her shoulders relax a bit. Maybe with some more gentle prodding, she could get Luffy out of this fix, no worse for wear. Garp seemed amenable, at least going by the expression that had settled on his face.

Of course, she should have known it wasn't going to be that easy.

"I’m not gonna be a marine! I'm gonna be a  _pirate_!"

Makino closed her eyes as the forceful declaration drifted out from behind the safety of her legs.  _Oh, Luffy._

Garp's brows furrowed so fast and so viciously she wondered if he could actually  _see_  anything, eyes squinting in their direction as they were, and when he spoke his voice was a low thrum of barely-repressed fury, "What did you just say, boy?"

Makino rubbed the spot between her brows where a headache was building. She’d had a bit too much to drink the night before, prompted in part by Suzume’s shameless encouragement, and the thought of the empty bed that had been waiting for her. Not that she was about to tell Garp either of those things. "Garp-san—"

Spurred by a sudden fearlessness no seven-year-old with Garp for a grandfather should rightly possess, Luffy stepped out from behind her, squaring his small shoulders and crossing his arms over his chest. "I said I'm not gonna be a stupid marine!” he declared. “I'm gonna be a pirate! Like Shanks!"

The moment the name left his mouth Makino felt something within her  _seize_  — and she drew in a startled breath just before she saw the realisation of his error dawn on Luffy's face. And following on the heels of their shared horror was Garp's incredulity.

"Say that name again, Luffy."

There was a dangerous calm to that utterance, the kind Makino had never heard from Garp in all the years she'd known him. The Garp she knew was all bluster and easily ignited but short-lived temper. The quiet tension strung between his words now had sweat breaking out across her back.

Luffy said nothing, but the damage had already been done, and Makino swore she could see when realisation dawned on Garp, as he finally connected the dots. Her elusive beau, who was never around to be found, and who left her expensive books in strange places.

A man who was conveniently unadventurous, but that she'd failed to mention was also quite a famous pirate.

She expected him to erupt — to blow a fuse, and punch another hole through her wall. And a moment later she wished he would have, because what he did instead was infinitely worse.

Garp just looked at her, and even though he'd always been an expressive man, Makino couldn't for the life of her read anything into his expression now, the hard slant of his features refusing to be named.

But the naked hurt in his eyes, that she could see now, plain as day for the first time since Emiko’s passing, had something lodging at the base of her throat. And suddenly all she could think about was Garp telling her never to give her heart to a man who'd leave her — and more than anything, to a pirate.

And even though she'd never had a father, in that moment Makino felt very much the failed daughter.

"Garp-san," she tried, cautiously, because she had no idea how he would proceed now that the cat was out of the figurative bag.

"Luffy."

The boy perked up behind her, and she felt a nervous tug at her apron-strings. Garp hadn't taken his eyes off her yet, but he wasn't speaking to her. "We're going to train. Put that damn hat away and get ready."

Then he turned on his heel and walked out without another word, leaving the doors swinging in his wake, both still attached. And the last fact was more telling than anything else he could have said or done.

Makino stared after him, a hollow, sunken feeling lurking behind her ribcage at the show of uncharacteristic coldness from a man who'd never been anything but too-loud laughter and rough hugs throughout the entirety of her childhood.  _Looks like I'm not a child anymore._

"Sorry, Ma-chan..."

Drawn out of her thoughts by the softly murmured apology, Makino glanced down at Luffy, watching her with all his feelings on display.

Smile wavering slightly, she reached down to flick his nose affectionately. "Don’t worry, Luffy. Your grandpa will come around, I'm sure." She didn't let slip the fact that she was in truth anything but sure. She'd never seen Garp so... _disappointed_.

A winning smile stretched across his face, tugging at the scar on his cheek, and with a confident nod he was ambling towards the door after his grandfather. But before reaching the doorway, he came to a stop, and Makino watched curiously as he tugged his new hat off his head, before running back to her with it.

"Keep it safe for me?"

Something  _lurched_  within her, and Makino sucked in a breath through her nose, before reaching down to accept the hat.

The worn straw felt coarse against her palms, and she curled her fingers around the wide brim with more care than probably necessary, gaze fixed on the red ribbon and her thoughts dragged without mercy back to that first day, the sun spilling through her windows, throwing the grin sitting under the hat in shadow, and _easy now! You’re scaring the poor girl._

When she looked up, Luffy was gone, but she caught the tail-end of a muffled conversation from outside. Garp's gruff tones, and Luffy's reply, shrill with indignation; a familiar back-and-forth that quickly slipped under the quiet sounds of the village as they put distance between themselves and the bar.

In their wake, Makino stood with the hat, eyes sweeping the length of her establishment, taking in the empty chairs and tables, the spotless floors and the full keg behind the counter.

And the distinct lack of dirty glasses that seemed more prominent than anything else.

 

—

 

She was well into her closing routines when she at last heard familiar footsteps on her porch.

Luffy had come back earlier for dinner, knees scuffed and determination bright on his face, and had told Makino in no uncertain terms that he hadn’t changed his mind about his future career as a pirate. On the contrary, he would settle for nothing less than being the greatest — _that_ would show Shanks and his grandfather both.

She’d been waiting with the straw hat — it had been sitting on her bar all day, and had seemed always to be at the corner of her eye wherever she turned, the worn straw and the bright red ribbon tempting her eyes from drifting anywhere else. For all that it was an old, seemingly inconspicuous thing, it demanded a curious amount of attention; like a natural focal point forcing everything else to move around it.

It reminded her a little too much of its previous owner, and so it had been a small relief when Luffy had come to collect it, and taken it upstairs when she’d put him to bed.

Garp had been conspicuously absent as the evening had stretched on, and Luffy had said nothing over dinner or after about his grandfather’s state of mind, other than grumble into his meal about using his training to get stronger. And Makino hadn’t asked — had only gone about her business, and waited for Garp to come to her. That he would come, she hadn’t doubted, but she’d had no idea of what to expect when he did.

The soft whine of the doors reached her ears now, and wringing the cloth in her hands to keep them from shaking, Makino took her time wiping down the table before she finally turned towards her late visitor, brushing a few beads of perspiration off her brow.

For his part, Garp looked like he'd aged a few years in his short absence, and there was a new furrow between his brows as he regarded her from across the length of the common room; as though he was seeing her in a different light. Or that he was _seeing_ her, the woman she was now, perhaps for the first time.

Makino didn’t know what to feel about that. Pleased, that he was beginning to realise she wasn’t a little girl anymore, or sad, that a choice she’d made for herself should hurt him so much. Maybe even a little angry, that she should have to feel either.

"Are we on speaking terms?" she asked, as she dropped the rag back into the bucket at her feet, before pushing a loose lock of hair back into the confines of her kerchief.

There was a moment, right at the heels of her question — not deferential, or even pretending to be — where Makino wondered if he'd just storm out again without saying anything. And so she was surprised when he took a few heavy steps inside, before selecting a chair and settling into it with the tiredness of a much older man.

Another beat of silence passed without any words exchanged between them, before Garp finally spoke, "When Em threw her life away for a pirate, I told her off. Not just because he was a bloody pirate, as I'm sure you've guessed, or at least heard some rumour from that old gossip down the street.” The last part was muttered with an accompanying eye-roll. "But I dealt with it, because she was too damn stubborn to change her mind. And I watched her pine for years and years, waiting, because she'd gotten it into her head the bastard was gonna come _back_." He gave her a look. "But he didn't, and she died, and he still hasn't shown his face."

The words settled, heavy like a conviction between them, but Makino said nothing, sensing that Garp wasn't finished.

He sighed. "Then when my own brat dropped off the map, leaving Luffy behind...I decided it was _enough_. I was done sitting around watching the same thing happen again and again. It ain't right. They—" he stopped, brows furrowing suddenly, and he looked away, as though to rein in his temper.

Makino tilted her head, regarding him closely. There was a long history there, and more than what he was letting on. "Was that why you brought that little boy here to stay with Dadan?" she asked then, calmly testing the waters. "Did someone leave him, too?"

She'd met the boy Garp called 'Ace’ on a few occasions — had babysat him before Dadan had taken him in. She hadn't seen him since before Luffy had been born, but he wasn't much older. And Garp had never said where he'd come from or why he'd shown up with him in the first place. It was, like so many things surrounding the man and his family, a mystery.

Garp ran a hand over his face. "That's a whole other story, but…yeah. Something like that."

Makino said nothing to that, but walked over to take a seat beside him. He'd calmed down, and enough so that he seemed to have resigned himself. Part of her wondered wryly if she didn't prefer the anger.

"It ain't right," Garp repeated, gaze fixed on some indeterminable point across the room, and thoughts gone somewhere she couldn't follow.

Makino reached out then, calloused fingers softened by wash-water curling around one of his larger hands — familiar hands that had hoisted her up in the air when she'd been younger, and ruffled her hair when Emiko’s temper had so often left her crying in the storeroom. He'd sometimes come to sit beside her, squeezing into a space much too small for his shape, and had told her stories of his adventures as she'd wiped her eyes dry. The censored versions, of course, because he hadn't wanted to give her ideas.

"Garp-san," she said. "I'm sorry you don’t agree with my decision, but I'm not going to be sorry I made it. And I know there isn't much difference to you, but this isn't the same as it was with Luffy, or with Ace. I had a choice. I wasn't left behind — I stayed."

He met her eyes at that, brows still furrowed. "Red-Hair asked you to come with him?"

"Yes."

"To be a pirate?"

She raised a brow at that, a clear challenge. "You don't think I could be one?"

He snorted, not even half a beat missed. "You'd be the very worst sort, charming people out of their wits and treasure. You'd give some big shots on the Grand Line a run for their money with those eyes."

Her challenging look melted into a smile. "You'd hunt me down in a second."

"You bet your goddamn bar I would," Garp retorted, but without bite. He gave her another searching look. "So why aren't I hunting you down already?"

She shrugged, her smile holding her secrets, but not telling them. "I've still got things to do. My part to play."

He frowned. "What aren't you telling me, Makino?"

She tightened her grip on his hand. "I might tell you, if you tell me why you're so afraid Luffy is going to run off to be a pirate. I've come to learn they're not all bad."

Garp snorted. “That blasted Red-Hair's charms got you good, huh?"

She didn’t even flinch. “I like to think it was the other way around."

The laugh that dragged from him seemed to come of its own volition. "God help me but I'm inclined to believe you." He shook his head, and his sigh was a heavy, wholly despondent thing. "But of all the cursed souls on the five seas, Makino, why'd it have to be _him_?"

"Is there anyone else you would have preferred?" she countered, and, suddenly emboldened, "And why not him?” she asked. “He’s kind, and honest. And he's a man who keeps his word. You're not so different, in that regard."

 _Something_  passed over his face at that, a grimace so quick it was gone before she'd had the chance to name it. "Bloody righteous pirates," he muttered under his breath. "Too damn close to home."

Makino frowned. "If you're talking about Mistress Emiko..." she began, but trailed off before she could finish. They'd been over that already, ad nauseam. Some days it felt like it was all she'd been hearing about her whole life. But Garp said nothing, and her frown deepened as she caught the darkening look on his face. "You're not talking about Mistress Emiko."

Still he said nothing, but the muscles in his hand tightened beneath hers. "Garp-san?"

"Famous pirates make enemies," he said finally.

Makino blinked. "What?"

He levelled her with a look, and she was taken aback by the sheer amount of _feeling_ behind it. "The fool that left your old Mistress?” he asked then. “No reputation to speak of. In fact, he was such a low-level pirate it was a pain in the ass finding so much as a criminal record, let alone a bounty. Guy wasn't even a blip on our radar, nevermind anyone else's." He shook his head. "It's the one thing I'm grateful for — him leavin' her outta danger. No one to come after her to get to him, or for revenge." He paused, before adding in a low rumble, "Or justice."

Garp looked at her then, and whatever he saw, it made his expression contort into something she’d never seen before in all her years of knowing him.

Fear. Cold, hard  _fear._  And from a man who had throughout her whole life been such an unmovable pillar of strength, the sight shook something loose within her.

"I could tell you his bounty so far, but I don't think I need to," Garp began then, when the pause had dragged on, long and laden. "I think you already know Red-Hair's not some low-level pirate. Imagine what he'll be in five years. In ten. Could well be the next Pirate King if he's allowed to roam free."

Makino frowned. "He doesn’t want to be the Pirate King," she protested, but Garp only snorted.

"You think he'll have a say in the matter? You think Roger did?"

She opened her mouth, but closed it again. "But—"

Garp sighed. "Look, I ain't saying it's gonna happen for sure. There's a lot of big fish on the Grand Line to compete for that title, and before you say it, _no_ , it's got nothing to do with One Piece." He grumbled, "If he wasn't already dead I'd have the bastard strung up by his ankles for putting that idea into people's heads.”

Then with a sigh, "What I'm saying is, if there's gonna be a next Pirate King it’s not gonna be some lucky idiot who just happens to find a big treasure." He fixed her with another look, this one curiously accusing. "Red-Hair? Incites loyalty wherever that bloody ship docks. I'm going to bet my favourite coat he's got this whole village wrapped around his little finger.”

Makino felt her cheeks flush, but said nothing as she let the words sink in. She'd known, of course. Shanks didn't carry himself like a low-level thief, and his crew didn't treat him like one. But hearing it from Garp still sent a shiver racing up her spine.

"Red-Hair is the most dangerous kind of pirate,” Garp said then, making her gaze lift. “Roger was the same, but then you can probably blame his influence for the first. Him and that damn straw hat." His hands tightened into fists again. “The kid won’t be any different, if he doesn't put this new idea out of his head."

Makino shook her head. "You don't know that."

Garp cut her another look. "I spent the prime of my goddamn career chasing down the man who had the Grand Line in the palm of his hand. I know the  _type,_  Makino, and I know what usually happens to them."

A stray memory of the newspaper headline from the day of the Pirate King's execution drifted before her mind's eye, and Makino drew her hands away from Garp's. His look didn't soften as he continued, no doubt realising his words were having their desired effect. "And if you think the Government has any pity left for those who give their hearts to men like that..." he trailed off, and there was something dark in those words so at odds with his character—

Realisation dawned with a breath, and, "Gold Roger left someone behind," she said suddenly, voicing the words even before the thought had fully registered. And she thought she knew then, what Garp saw when he looked at her. Not her old Mistress, her own lover gone but free to live out her life in peace.

No. He saw someone quite different. Close to home, but not the way Makino had first thought.

Garp said nothing, not to confirm or to refute her assertion, but his expression spoke volumes, and Makino shook her head. "But the newspapers—"

He snorted. "You think everything the Government does ends up in the paper?"

She closed her mouth, struggling to wrap her mind around the new possibility she hadn't before taken into consideration. But, "You knew Gold Roger,” she said then, carefully. “Did you— did you know her _,_  too?"

Garp shook his head, and leaned back in his chair with a heavy sigh, the legs creaking under his weight. "Not for long."

She frowned. "What do you—"

Then she stopped, horror surging through her so violently she almost had to catch herself on the table's edge. "Garp-san, _you_ didn't—!"

He held up his hands. "Hey now, rein in that damn imagination of yours! I didn't do anything. I had orders to, but..." he trailed off, and there was a bitterness there so sharp she could almost taste it. Not for having failed his orders. No, she knew Garp well enough to know he'd never have gone through with such a thing. The orders themselves, then.

"Did they send you to kill her?" The words felt cold on her tongue; cold and acidic.

For a moment, it looked like he wouldn’t answer, but then Garp sighed, and, "Not her," he said at length, and it sounded like it took effort for him to drag the words out. "Her child."

Makino blinked, mind scrambling to keep up with the story he was presenting her in bits and pieces, before a thought struck her and her eyes widened. An impossible thought, but then — "Ace is too young," she said, eyes searching his face for answers to the conundrum he'd put before her. "The execution— even if—"

Garp shrugged, and something old and haunted passed over his features. "Woman was stubborn,” was all he said.

Makino sank lower in her chair. "They wanted you to kill his unborn child?"

Garp didn't answer, but then that was all the answer Makino needed. Running a hand over her face, she shook her head. "So _Ace_..."

He sighed. "I'm keeping it under wraps. No one needs to know, and so long as the brat stays put, he's safe." He gave her a pointed look. "But he's not the one I'm worried about right now."

Makino shook her head. "No one knows outside the village. And the crew won't say anything if they know the risks—"

"The Government found out about her despite Roger's attempts at keeping her hidden, Makino," Garp cut in, and she clamped her mouth shut. “And Red-Hair might be a cunning bastard, but he hasn’t got his former captain beat. He can be as careful as he damn well pleases — all it takes is the wrong person finding out. And I’ll be damned if anything happens to you just because he couldn’t keep it in his pants.”

There was a moment where Makino didn’t know if she was horrified at the casual suggestion, or irritated that it was all he thought it was. But then, watching the pull of Garp’s expression — “You know,” she said then, quietly. “That’s why you’re so upset, isn’t it? You know it was never just about that.”

He glared at her for that, and Makino had to fight to keep from smiling. “I might be a little behind in catching up with you, but I’ve known you since before you learned to walk. You wouldn’t have given him the time of day if you’d felt that was all he was after.”

She had to smile at that, remembering. But she wasn’t about to share the details of that with Garp. There were limits, even with almost-fathers, but, “No,” she agreed. “I wouldn’t.”

“Still,” Garp said, watching her. “An infatuation’s a lot to risk—”

“I love him,” she said, before he could finish, the words leaving her without effort, as though it was the easiest thing she’d ever said, and she felt her smile widen when Garp turned his eyes to the ceiling. “And I’d risk my life for that.”

He sighed, and when he laughed it carried a tinge of bitter helplessness. “I think this whole conversation has added ten years to my life.”

Makino fought to keep her smile from stretching too far. "You’ll want to arrest me now then, if you want to do the honours before your retirement plan kicks in.”

Garp shook his head, but she watched the corner of his mouth lift. "Were you always this glib?” He sighed. “Entirely questionable choices aside, though, I think you can count yourself safe on that front.” When she raised her brows, he snorted, “I lied my superiors in the face and the boy they sent me out to get rid of in the first place calls me 'grandpa'. As far as anyone's concerned, I don't know anything about this dalliance with Red-Hair."

Makino smiled, and refrained from commenting on _dalliance_ , recognising the significance of what he was telling her. “Thank you, Garp,” she said instead, knowing it wasn't enough to convey her gratitude, but unable to find anything else to say. It was more than she'd expected, and far more than she deserved for keeping it from him in the first place. “I appreciate you looking out for me. I hope you know that.”

He looked at her then, and the sudden intensity in his expression made her breath catch. “You don’t want to know what I’d do to keep you safe,” he told her, evenly. “And let’s hope you never have to find out.”

She swallowed, feeling tears pressing at her eyes now, but nodded. “I’ll be careful.” Then, inclining her head, one brow lifted as she reached for his hand again, giving it a warning squeeze, “And you’ll be _nice_ ,” she said, voice thick despite her attempted humour.

Some of the tension bled out of him at the gesture, and he turned his palm upwards, squeezing hers back. “ _Nice_ ,” he scoffed. Then, “Maybe.” He gave her a look. "Doesn't mean I approve in the least."

Makino smiled through her tears, and pulled her hands back to tug her kerchief from her hair to wipe at her eyes. And she knew he couldn’t understand why the sight of it lured a laugh from her, as she tucked her fingers around the soft fabric. Not her favourite, but she’d live with the loss of that. Something told her it’d find its way back, as treasured things sometimes did.

"I know,” she said then, looking up to meet his gaze. “I’d be disappointed if you did. At least without putting up a fight."

Garp only shook his head, as though telling her he’d given up trying to understand her, but his resignation was a kinder thing than she’d expected it would be, and Makino felt gratitude swelling behind her ribcage.

She watched as Garp threw a glance across the common room, dark but for the lone kerosene lamp sitting on her bar, and the candles she’d lit on some of the tables. The firelight danced over the wood, small shadows catching in cracks and fissures. The quiet rested, a heavy thing, but somehow, despite it being just the two of them, her bar didn’t feel so empty anymore.

"You know,” Garp said then. “Last time I had this conversation, I was banned from this place."

Makino smiled. "Mistress Emiko always had a bigger temper than I ever did."

Garp scoffed, a sound betrayed wholly by the fleeting grin that flashed across his face. "You got that right."

She was about to respond when the sound of heavy footsteps on the porch reach them through the doors, and she looked around Garp to find them being pushed open, admitting a man she’d never seen before.

He was Garp's age, but bore the years with more effort, leaning his weight on a wooden cane that he used to take a tentative step inside. There was more grey in his hair than its naturally dark colour, and a severely cut beard outlined a prominent jawline.

Keen eyes regarded them from the prison of a grim face — and, noticing the tears Makino was still dabbing from her eyes, he raised a dark brow in silent query, even as he said, "Is this a bad time? I saw the lights and assumed..." he gestured to the common room.

Makino put on a smile. "I’m closing up, so if you want a drink you'll have to come back—"

"Ah, no, I'm not looking for a drink," he cut in, although not unkindly. “I'm actually looking for a woman. By the name Emiko? I was told she owned this joint."

Makino frowned. "What business do you have with her?" She could practically feel Garp where he’d tensed up beside her, but he hadn't said a word, not even to correct her to let the man know she was dead.

The stranger smiled then — not a pretty sight, but not attempting to be that, either. But it was a strikingly honest thing, and, “I seem to have left my manners on the ship," he declared, taking another step inside, the sound of his cane against the floorboards loud in the silence that had descended on the room.

He sketched a formal bow, and Makino’s brows shot towards her hairline. "The name's Yuujin," he introduced himself, righting his shoulders with some effort. "I used to be first mate on the crew of a man named Jirou."

Her heart leaped into her throat, and she felt Garp stiffen beside her at the name—

"And I'm here on behalf of my captain."

 


	16. bind it with heartstrings

Makino wasn't sure she'd heard him right.

"Your captain?" Her heart had done a somersault into her throat as the full implication behind his words hit her.

Beside her, Garp sat, silent and tense as a strung wire, and for one terrifying second Makino was afraid he'd pounce on the pirate before he'd had the chance to explain himself.

But, "You mind repeating that name, pirate?" was all Garp asked, and the man's gaze left Makino to settle on the marine. Even in his brightly coloured civvies Garp commanded as much authority as he did in full uniform, but her visitor seemed curiously unaffected.

"Jirou. I don't know if that means anything to either of you, but I was told there'd be a woman here who'd know."

"There was," Makino cut in before Garp could open his mouth again, drawing the stranger’s attention back. "But she passed away last year."

The man's face fell visibly. "Oh. That— is unfortunate." But for all his stark economy of speech, the regret underlying his words was unmistakable.

"I'm sorry," Makino began then, "I know I said we were closed, but would you like a drink? She— Emiko was my legal guardian, and I'd like to hear why you've come. She would have wanted that, I think. Seeing as it concerns…him."

He seemed to consider her for a moment, attention breezing right past the glare levelled his way by the man seated beside her, before he seemed to come to a decision, and, "I could use a glass, yeah,” he said, a hard smile pulling at his mouth, turning it a little crooked. “If it's not too much trouble, that is. It's been a long voyage."

Makino smiled, and moved behind the bar to retrieve some glasses. Still seated at the table, Garp seemed to have decided to convey his suspicion with silence, and by his crossed arms and ramrod posture he seemed to be in no hurry to leave.

The stranger looked at Makino, before sliding a wary look in Garp’s direction. "Does he need to—"

"Yes," Garp said, and sat back comfortably in his chair, the demonstration a challenge if Makino had ever seen one, and she rolled her eyes. Placing a glass down on the table beside him, she offered it with a warning look, which Garp met with one of his own that she pointedly ignored. The man who’d called himself Yuujin took a seat at the bar — at a careful distance from the marine.

"So — Yuujin, was it?" she began with a careful smile. "You said you were here on behalf of your captain..." She phrased her curiosity with care, suddenly unsure of how to ask the question that had been nagging at her since his announcement that he'd used to be the first mate. 'Used to be' and 'on behalf of' _,_ they were all pointing in the same direction.

He nodded. "Yes. It's long overdue, and I realise now that I'm too late, but I figured I can finish what I came here to do, either way. Cap would have wanted it."

Makino's face fell, along with her heart. "He's dead, then."

Yuujin nodded, this time with more care. "For some years now. The Grand Line can be quite unforgiving. He was already ill when I was recruited, but it took years before it finally got him. Stubborn bastard." A smile tugged at his severe mouth, harder than the words when he said, "By then I'd heard all the stories, of the woman he'd left back in East Blue. Hell, everyone knew about her, even those who'd never actually met her. She'd made something of an impression. To say the least."

Garp snorted, but said nothing, and Makino smiled. "That does sound like her. She was— formidable."

Yuujin guffawed, a rough bark of a laugh that was only saved from sounding grating by the genuine mirth it held. "That's the nicest I’ve heard anyone put it, lass. Cap was less polite about it." He shook his head, but his smile had softened a fraction. "But a blind idiot could see he was a smitten idiot. Talked about her 'til the day death dragged him off, and I’ll bet my good leg that’s how he’s keeping it company in the hereafter.” A snort, and, “Bet death’s regretting taking him now.”

Then, with a shake of his head, "Either way, she must have been some woman. Hope she’s giving death all the grief Cap promised she’d give him, for keeping her waiting.”

The sudden fondness that gripped her heart left her reeling, and the woman herself would have called her a sentimental fool for even thinking it, but, "She was,” Makino agreed, stubbornly. “And knowing her, she probably is.”

Grinning now, Yuujin looked down into his glass, before something entered his eyes, and Makino had the sudden impression he was seeing different waters than the drink. "Cap was always talking about going back to East Blue,” he began then, turning the tumbler over in his hand, considering the liquid as it swirled lazily to the small movements. “But it’s hard leaving. Hard to explain it, too, if you haven’t felt it. You can love another person, or a country or what have you, but the sea…” He shook his head. “And the Grand Line…once she gets hold of you, you're done. There's no turning back from that.” A snort, and, “Death makes less demands of a man.”

Makino curled her fingers around the empty glass in her hands to keep them from shaking, but the words had seen something cold coil itself around her heart. She’d made that very comparison herself, although she’d considered the sea to be the kinder mistress. But watching the old pirate now, Makino wondered suddenly if she’d been mistaken.

She pushed the feeling down before it could claim her focus; there was time enough for her personal concerns later. Ten years’ worth.

"Do you think he ever meant to come back?" she heard herself asking then, and for all her attempts at keeping her own choices, her own pirate, from claiming focus, there was a moment where she wasn’t sure just on whose behalf she was asking.

Yuujin looked at her, sharp gaze dragged back from the bottom of his drink, the sea he’d found in it, and Makino wondered if he could somehow tell what she was thinking. But whatever he found on her face, he kept his thoughts to himself, although the severe press of his smile conveyed an understanding Makino felt the echo of, deep in her gut.

But, "Yeah,” he said then, and when she blinked, he shrugged. “I think that if he'd lived, he'd have found a way back. Might've taken him a few years, but I think he always meant to. Shame I didn't get to tell her. Lass must have gone thinking he'd left her hanging."

"She didn't," Makino said, drawing both men's attentions. Garp still hadn’t said anything, but was watching her now with a strange look in his eyes, and once again there was the sense that she wasn’t just speaking for her old mother. "I was with her when she passed. She still thought he was coming back."

She didn’t mention what had ailed Emiko in her last years, and the fact that she’d barely been lucid enough to know one day from the next, let alone the past from the present. But Garp knew, and remembered, and Makino felt the weight of that shared knowledge now, although she was surprised to find that it wasn’t accusing, like she’d expected. Not that she could pin a different name to the expression on his face.

Yuujin's smile was morose. "Doesn't always work out, does it? It's like one of those old novels my ma used to read, where the adventurer comes back to find his love's passed an hour before his return.” He shook his head, gaze suddenly far away. "But then there's always some magic potion to bring her back, and everyone lives on happily."

He scoffed, and tossed back the last of his drink, before considering the empty glass. "No magic potions in this tale. Only a sharp drink to take the sting off the grief, but then I guess that’s real life for you."

Makino refilled his glass without a word, and slid it back across the bar. "Things don't always go the way we hope they will," she agreed, quietly. If Emiko had held on just a year longer, or if he’d arrived just a little sooner...

She frowned. No— that wouldn't have made a difference, would it? Her old mother had died believing the man she was waiting for would come back. If Yuujin had arrived sooner, just to tell her his captain had always intended to come back...it wouldn't have changed how she'd felt. She'd known, and had held onto that belief to her last breath, even without assurances.

"She knew," Makino said then, breaking the tense lull that had descended on the room. Yuujin glanced towards her, and she smiled. "She always knew he'd come back. I think it was hard, holding onto that belief, but I don't think she ever doubted he would." She shrugged. "Would it have been better for her to know he'd passed away before she could see him?"

The old pirate regarded her searchingly for a moment, before a curious smile tugged at his mouth. "Nah, lass,” he said. “I think you might be right." He raised his glass. "Here's hoping they've found each other across the void, and that death regrets the union. The devil knows they deserved it," he muttered, before downing the contents. When he made as if to get up, Makino spoke without thinking.

"Would you tell me?" she blurted, and when his eyes went to hers, repeated her words with a little more self-control, "The stories he told you about her. Would you tell them to me?"

A moment passed wherein he seemed to assess her, hard eyes holding hers, and Makino wondered if he recognised the longing she felt, sitting just under the surface of her cheerful facade — the same kind of longing his old captain must have felt, if not demonstrated quite as vividly, for all his talk.

Then he smiled, although it did little to soften his features, rough-hewn as they were, but, "Sure thing." He settled back into his seat. "If you wouldn't mind getting me another glass," he added with a snort. "Going to need one to get through 'em all. Cap was a bit of a talker."

She smiled. "I can manage that."

And so she kept the bar open, her closing routines interrupted and forgotten, until the candles she'd lit had guttered their last breath and dawn’s first reminder had begun to creep in through the bank of windows, beyond which the sea sat, quiet as always.

Garp said nothing through the whole ordeal, resolutely silent, although Makino suspected he'd stayed mostly to keep an eye on the pirate. But he'd seemed surprisingly attentive while Yuujin relayed the stories he’d heard, and Makino had left him to his introspection, placing a refilled mug down beside him at intervals.

And it had felt good, hearing stories of her old Mistress from someone other than the villagers. From Yuujin's words, his captain had been brutally honest about the woman he'd given his heart, but Makino devoured every word like those in her books.

And in a way, it was like a book — the fragmented pieces he shared, of a woman who’d been her mother in all the ways that mattered, but who Makino had never truly _known_. The spirited barmaid in the backwater port, who'd arm-wrestled his captain for tips and broken his wrist in the process, and who’d known more raunchy sea shanties than the whole crew combined. She'd told legends and far-fetched stories his captain had sworn she'd made up from the top of her head, and didn’t suffer fools — and had considered most people under that category until proven wrong. She hadn't been coy or charming, and from Yuujin’s impression of her, no beauty.

But she'd been  _striking_ , and even if she hadn’t known these sides of her, Makino recognised Emiko in every single story, second-hand as they were offered.

Yuujin finally made to retreat as the first shafts of yellow sunlight pooled beneath the windows, leaving Makino nursing that curious, almost hangover-like feeling that usually followed the end of a particularly good book. It was a formal sort of emptiness; a little melancholy, but sitting with a curious warmth in the bottom of her stomach, like the aftertaste of a good drink.

She spared a single, dry thought to the fact that drinking metaphors had become such a natural part of her vocabulary, and could picture the culprit himself, grinning in his shameless pleasure somewhere across the sea.

"Was it true?" she asked Garp then, after silence had had time to pool, a small ocean between them. "What he said about her?" She looked toward the old marine, and found him staring into empty space, an untouched mug sitting idle at his elbow, all the froth gone from the rim. "Garp-san?”

He blinked, seeming to come out of his daze, but slowly, and when he looked at her, standing behind the bar with a glass in her hands, Makino wondered who he was really seeing.

Then, with a sigh that carried, he shifted his weight in his chair, grimacing at the movement. But, "Damn pirate knew her well,” he said then. “Didn't think he did.” He muttered the last bit, as though to himself.

Makino's smile softened. "Is that reluctant acquiescence I hear?" she teased, and Garp cut her a sharp glance.

"Don't think this applies to that damn Red-Hair."

She turned her chin up. “You can think what you will. It won't change what I feel."

Garp glared, but, "You really think he'll come back, then?" he asked.

She was reminded suddenly of Yuujin's words; of the hold the Grand Line had on certain hearts. And she knew the songs — the shanties telling of sailors whose wives would always come second, whose true loves were all the same lady.

But then she thought of Shanks, pressing her fingers to his chest. That curious smile, and _you’ll take care of what I left you._

She smiled, and surety sat in her chest with a weight that wouldn’t be budged. "Yes."

Garp looked at her through furrowed brows, as though sizing her up. And once again Makino wondered what he saw — the awkward teenager who'd so often come to greet him at the docks with a hug, or the shadow of his old friend, telling him off for disagreeing with her choices?

Or maybe it was someone else entirely — like the woman who hadn’t been afraid to love the King of Pirates.

He sighed then, the sound wrapped heavily around the words he spoke, even as the smile that pulled at his lips was undeniably affectionate. "You went and grew up,” he told her, half-accusing. "Could swear you were just running around, hiding books in your apron and shirking your duties." He snorted, and seemed for a moment to be doing a mental tally of his years. "Long time ago, that."

Makino raised a brow, and without a word, slipped a hand into the pocket of her apron, before tugging out an old paperback and holding it up with a wry smile.

Garp barked a laugh. "Ha! Well, it's good some things haven't changed." He cocked his head, eyes warm with old affection. "Which one is that, then? The one with the runaway princess in disguise? Or the one with the thief and the rebel king? You were always telling me about those damn things," he muttered fondly.

Makino grinned, and tucked the book away as she came around the bar to take a seat next to him at the table. "Neither. It's a new one."

His look turned suddenly knowing. "Red-Hair leave you that, too?"

She smiled, and met his look squarely. "With a few others." When she'd returned to Party's after his departure, it had been to find a small pile sitting on her bed; a gift, like the cloak Suzume had brought her, a familiar row of stitches running along the hem, and the memory of a cold night by the wharf in the salt and gunpowder that clung to the worn fabric. And for all his delight in making others happy, he seemed curiously insistent on leaving her gifts without being present to accept her gratitude.

 _Well,_ she thought, tucking a small smile into the corner of her mouth, a stubborn thing delighting in sudden rebellion. _I’ll show him when he comes back._

Garp rubbed at his moustache, but said nothing for a moment. Then, "You really set on waiting for this pirate, Makino?" he asked.

She nodded. "He said he’d come back, and I believe him."

Garp said nothing to that, but looked towards the doors Yuujin had exited earlier. And then, inexplicably, a small smirk appeared, breaking through his grim countenance. "If you say he will, I believe you," he conceded, much to Makino's surprise.

He cut his eyes at her then, this look holding a warning, but with his usual humour underlying the gruff sentiment. "But you better believe that I'll be here to greet him when he does. A bare-knuckled punch sounds about right, for that cheeky brat. For leaving you in the first place." His grin widened then, a staggeringly young thing, full of sudden self-satisfaction. "If I don't get him on the Grand Line first, that is."

Makino laughed, a sob tucked tenderly around the sound. "Well, you tell him I said hi, if you see him.”

Garp looked at her again, and some of his humour bled away, leaving something curiously stark in its wake. "You happy, Makino?" he asked then, but the question wasn’t half as searching as the eyes holding hers.

Drawing a breath, she thought past the lingering sorrow that remained after their goodbyes, and focused instead on the other things — the books on her bed, and the cloak; Luffy’s new hat, and all the other things he’d left, heart and laughter and more impressions than she knew what to do with, but had ten years ahead of her to sort through at her own leisure. "I am."

He sighed. "Can't argue with that."

She smiled through the tears she felt, pressing at her eyes. “No, I guess you can’t."

Rising from her chair, she made a move to hug him, the way she'd used to when she was younger, tucking her arms under his and pressing her face into the crook of his neck. He'd always smelled of sea and cigars, and it had been a comfort in her younger years when she’d just received an earful and had needed someone to hold her. Emiko had never been one for hugs, or touches beyond the strictly practical, but Garp hugged like he punched — with the whole weight of his feelings behind it. And for all his awkward bluster and questionable child-rearing skills, he’d always known how to cheer her up.

"Thank you, Garp," she murmured, voice partly muffled by his shirt. "It means everything _."_

She heard him grumble something about 'damn stubborn women', but he didn't release her, and when he tightened his grip past the point where she could draw breath, she was fourteen again, and he’d just told her she’d make a damn fine woman when she grew up, no matter what the old girl said.

Pulling back, Makino wiped her tears and picked up the glasses to take back to the bar. Garp watched her work, seeming to hold onto his words — or what was far more likely, his curiosity — before finally relenting. "So, did Red-Hair give you a date, or is he making you wait indefinitely?"

She glanced over her shoulder, and considered the wisdom behind telling him, wondering suddenly if he’d been serious in his threat to be present to greet Shanks’ return.

 _He’s_ _probably going to be late, anyway._  "Ten years," she said at length. She wisely left out the part about Luffy's first bounty, given who she was talking to.

Garp raised a brow. "You'll be thirty."

She grinned impishly. "He'll be older."

He snorted. "You got that right." He was silent a moment, and then, watching her, "Ten years is a long time, Makino,” he said.

There were a hundred things sitting in that statement. Not accusations, but warnings — words of caution he didn’t utter, but that she heard as they came to settle, in the space between them. Ten years, when she’d only known Shanks for one.

She placed the glasses in the sink, and wiped her hands on the kitchen towel. "Maybe." She shrugged, and when she smiled, felt all the unspoken things in the room vanish; morning mist on the new sea, broken through and banished by the first, warm cut of the sun. "But it's not forever."

Garp watched her closely for a beat, before he scoffed, the sound ruined by the smile that echoed her own, although it was a far more reluctant thing. "No, it's not," he agreed.

He fell silent again, and Makino turned back to her cleaning, and was considering sleeping in — the thought of the rare indulgence was accompanied by the memory of a shameless grin pressed against her pillow, then her skin, tempting half-hearted protests into yielding — when Garp’s voice suddenly rang out, loud in the interior of the tavern and drawing her out of her musings—

"But if he sends his first mate in his place, he better damn well be  _dead,_  or I'll hunt his philandering ass down and drag him back here myself!"

 

—

 

The sun was up when she finally retired, dragging herself away from the last of her cleaning, but she couldn’t decide if the quiet that wrapped around her was a welcome thing, or just the opposite.

She’d never used to shy away from solitude, but for the past two weeks her nights had been spent talking and laughing until sleep claimed her — if exhaustion hadn’t already, tempting tired limbs, delightfully spent and sinking into sleep to the drowsy grin hidden in the crook of her neck.

But even silent, Shanks’ presence had never allowed for _quiet_ , and Makino had grown so used to the feeling, being bereft of it now had left her curiously adrift.

She looked at her bedroom, lit by the morning sun — saw the bookcase against the far wall, laden with its considerable burden, and the novels stacked on her vanity; in the windowsill. So many different worlds and adventures, collected over the course of a short life, but looking at them now, she felt all the years sitting in the room, a collector’s worth.

 _Ten years_ , she thought. Half her life, so far. A third, when she eventually got to the end of them. And with the daunting realisation, Makino wondered how many stories could fit into that timeline — how many adventures, and islands visited. How many bounties raised, and daring escapes. And she thought about Garp’s words—

_I think you already know Red-Hair's not some low-level pirate. Imagine what he'll be in five years. In ten. Could well be the next Pirate King if he's allowed to roam free._

She looked at the cloak hanging over the back of her armchair, and the book on her nightstand, the singing sirens and the traitorous waves. And even with the stubborn hope that she’d rooted her heart in, she couldn’t keep the wary question from creeping in, thinking of the scars on his face, and the things he hadn’t told her.

 _Ten years,_ she thought, and not for the last time. But stubbornly, she tried to tempt her doubts into curiosity instead, shifting the path of her thoughts onto a different track, until she wasn’t thinking of the long years stretching ahead of her, but what awaited her once they’d passed.

_Where will you be then, Captain?_

She didn’t dare ask _who_  — didn’t think she could make herself consider that thought; that he’d be so changed she wouldn’t recognise him.

But only the years could tell which it would be in truth, and there was nothing left for her to do now, but to wait.

 


	17. another side, another perspective

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If anyone happens to be re-reading this fic (in which case, count yourself among my favourite people), this is where you'll notice one of the bigger changes. I wanted a whole chapter from Shanks' POV, so I've expanded the already existing bit...with quite a bit.
> 
> Of course, if you want an all-Shanks take on this story, the companion fic [Sailor's Folly](https://archiveofourown.org/works/8574928) will give you that, although with an upped rating, as Shanks is nothing if not predictably shameless.

The battlefield lay, split open like a cavity, the rot of humanity’s sheer capacity for violence seeming to permeate the very atmosphere, leaving stains like the soot dusting the jagged edges of stone and broken ships littered in his path. The indiscriminate chaos of the war had ushered in an eerie quiet; a pale mist drifting in from the sea to cover the scene, a white funeral shroud.

Shanks felt the unique quality of stillness as he stepped among the fallen, trying not to look too closely, to see how young, how _broken_ they all were. The near-gossamer mist clung like the cloak to his back, like the hundred voices he could still hear, if he concentrated. Fear always lingered in places like this, the smell ripe, and sharper than the sea-salt, than the gunpowder and blood.

He came to a stop by the body he’d singled out from amidst the bloody tapestry of death and destruction that rose on all sides, a grotesque monument to the lengths the world would go, to end a single man’s legacy.

A heavy, almost lethargic weight settled across his back as he took in the sight — the tattoo, barely recognisable, but the smile on his face had stayed, as though from sheer stubbornness alone; a rictus of shameless, last-moment’s happiness that was every bit his father’s legacy, but— Ace's own legacy, too, Shanks suspected.

Kneeling by the body, he considered the boy, only two short decades in this world before the world had said _enough_. Barely enough time to leave an imprint, and yet he’d managed. And maybe the world would remember him as his father’s son, but in Shanks’ experience, it wasn’t notoriety that left the deepest impressions. At least not in the people who mattered.

He thought of Makino, then. Barely twenty when they’d met, and no notoriety to speak of, but she’d left a mark he felt, ten years later. And it had been the small things that had cut the deepest, and wrought the biggest changes in him — that terrible kindness, and the love she’d offered, even before she’d realised he had every intention of returning it.

Watching the still shape laid out on the ground, the silence hewn only by the muted sounds of the aftermath, voices and movements at the far corners of his awareness, he wondered if there wasn’t something to it — the small things that were also the greatest. The grandeur of self-sacrifice hadn’t appealed to Portgas D. Ace; only the love of the brother he’d given his life for had meant anything at all, in the end.

He thought back to that cold winter evening — the campfire burning, and his breath fogging white with laughter at the unexpected greeting. They’d mostly talked about Luffy, but—

 _Makino-san said to say hello,_ he’d told him, the words offered in a lull between anecdotes outlining the sheer amount of trouble two kids could get into, with a quiet village and too much time on their hands.

And it was strange, Shanks had thought then — what the sound of her name could do to him, after almost ten years.

_She did, huh?_

_Yeah._ He’d grinned, with that sharp, too-perceptive look that had spelled the demise of so many of his father’s enemies. And there’d been a moment where Shanks had wondered just how much the boy had gathered from his reaction, but if he’d had thoughts, Ace hadn’t shared them.

_She doing okay?_

The kid had looked at him, the cut of his smile eerily familiar, as though he’d heard all the things that sat in that question. He’d shrugged.

_As okay as anyone would be, stuck in a place like Fuschia. I think I’d go crazy, but then that’s why I’m here and not there._

He’d wanted to ask more about her — remembered how the sudden, almost uncontrollable urge had left him breathless, and feeling more than a little ridiculous. But faced with an unexpected link between their worlds, Shanks had almost thought _to hell with it_ and asked the kid outright, every single question that had pushed up his throat, wanting to know if she’d seemed happy; if she still lived alone, or if she’d found someone.

The last was a question Shanks hadn’t known if he’d even wanted an answer to, but the fact that she’d told the kid to say _hello_ had given him an unreasonable amount of hope, that he might already know the answer. And if he’d asked, Ace might have confirmed it.

But he hadn’t asked. Something — fear, maybe, that if he did and his suspicions were confirmed, that she still hadn’t given up on him, he might be tempted to say _to hell with two more years_ and just go back. Because he’d felt it then, as he did now; the sense that something was coming. Something bigger than the two of them.

And so instead he’d drunk until he’d forgotten how she’d looked when he’d left her, and until he’d stopped wanting to ask how she looked now. He’d drunk until he couldn’t feel the cold, and until he forgot the fact that he couldn’t remember, no matter how hard he tried, what her voice sounded like.

He hadn’t asked, and so two more years had passed, one at the heels of the other, where nothing of note occurred, before at last, a long-awaited wanted poster made its way into his hands. But even then, there’d been the sense that he couldn’t go back yet — that the sea had something left for him to do, before she let him go.

But maybe it hadn’t made much of a difference in the end — his decision to wait. He might have put an end to the war, but he’d been too late to make a change where it mattered. To the people who mattered. Luffy, and the brother he’d loved; Roger’s son, now dead at Shanks’ feet.

“Red-Hair.”

He’d caught his approach from some ways off, but rose to his feet at the voice, dragging his eyes from Ace’s still shape as he turned to the one who’d addressed him. “Garp.”

It had been years since he’d last seen Garp — so many he’d lost count, but he had the vague impression that his hair had still been dark. Now it was grey, bleeding white in places, and the weathered pull of his expression carried more years than he did on his back.

He didn’t look at his grandson, and Shanks wondered how much strength it had taken for Garp to have approached him at all.

“Somehow,” Garp said then, after a laden moment had passed, his voice a hard, unforgiving rasp, “you always seem to know just when to show up.” He snorted. “Maybe it’s just dumb luck. Or maybe it’s something else. Hell if I know, but you always seem to come away the hero. Why is that?”

Shanks looked for an answer, but couldn’t find one. But then he doubted Garp thought he considered himself a hero.

Still. Having the word laid at his feet now, like a mangled corpse shrouded for burial like all the others, struck something deep within him. And it wasn’t blame, although maybe it would have been kinder if it had been, Shanks thought. Blame could be carried, could be endured. Ineptitude slipped between your fingers. There was no enduring that.

Around them, people were moving; grey shadows in the mist, searching for survivors and bodies to wrap. Pirates and marines coexisting, for once; a fragile peace brokered in honour of their fallen, and grief didn’t discriminate. And it didn’t matter who the bodies belonged to — if they had bounties to their names or if they were on the Government payroll. They’d all be wrapped and laid out, the casualties counted and recorded for posterity, a bloody record to go down in history, until all that was left were the numbers, and no one remembered the names.

He thought of the body at his feet. That ill-fitting stillness and the smile still on his face, grime and blood hiding the freckles that had to be his mother’s; a legacy that paled in comparison to the one that had been forced on him, but then wasn’t that the way of the world? The world didn’t remember the little things.

But he knew who would remember, watching the old marine, resolutely keeping his gaze from dropping, and the weight across his brow seemed heavy, even for a man as old as Garp.

Shanks wondered then, if he was thinking the same thing he was. Because Garp remembered Roger — not the legend; the terror that had gone down in history for grinning all the way through his own execution. No, Garp remembered the little things, Shanks suspected; the details only a handful of people had known about. The stories the world couldn’t have cared less to hear.

Like the woman who’d given their son her freckles. A story even Shanks didn’t know in full.

“I’ll take care of it,” Shanks said then. And he didn’t specify what he meant, but then he doubted Garp needed the reminder — doubted that there was another thought in his mind now than his grandson. If it was, it would be Luffy. And maybe it was redundant, saying it again, but he had to say something.

He caught Ben’s approach, a handful of Whitebeard’s crew in tow. They'd collect the bodies for burial, and Shanks met his first mate’s raised brow with a nod, and watched as they moved to take Ace with them.

Garp remained where he stood, shoulders bent and burdened under a weight that seemed palpable, and Shanks didn’t move to follow as they took the body away, their movements quick and efficient and their silence telling. But Garp didn’t stop them, and when they left Shanks lingered, too, and — he didn’t know why. Maybe there was part of him that waited for Garp to speak — to offer the blame that sat, strung between them, but that had no name. Maybe there was part of him that craved it, but as the seconds dragged on and there was no other word uttered between them, Shanks finally relented.

“Ten years,” Garp said then, before he could walk away, and the familiar mention stopped Shanks in his tracks even before Garp added, “For ten damn years that girl’s waited for you to drag your ass back.”

He didn’t turn at once, and there was blame there now, wholly unforgiving; a hammer-on-anvil blow that clanged between every broken structure in the death-clad quiet. But it was a different kind of blame than what Shanks felt clinging to the battlefield around them. This was an older blame; a deeply personal one. This wasn’t about the world, or pirates or the Government, or even Roger. This was about Shanks.

“You going to keep your word?” Garp asked then, the words not as hard this time, although no less unforgiving, and this time Shanks turned to look at him.

He felt the fragile truce quivering, as though all it would take was one wrong word for it to shatter, but Garp didn’t seem to be on the verge of attacking. Although something told Shanks the old marine’s restraint wasn’t due to the ceasefire he’d brokered, but something else.

Or rather, someone else. A gentler heart than either of theirs, and a stubborn will that could demand the sea itself to settle.

Garp was watching him now. His eyes had cleared a bit from the glassy haze of grief, but although the anger was familiar, it wasn’t any kinder, or making a point to be. And Shanks wondered for a moment what he saw — the cabin-boy he’d been once, stirring up mischief without a mind for the consequences; or the pirate he’d become, who’d set his grandson’s sights on the sea, and who’d left the closest thing he had to a daughter behind. Or maybe there was no difference, in Garp’s eyes.

Those hard eyes left his then, dropping lower, to glance off the kerchief looped around the hilt of his sword, the floral pattern faded and the fabric worn, but Shanks saw as recognition came to settle on his face.

And he hadn’t answered his question, but Shanks had the sudden sense that Garp had found it.

“If you go back,” Garp said then, and there was something dangerous in those words. Not just a warning — this was a _vow._ “You make a choice. You make _her_ your choice.”

Then, before Shanks could answer, “I ain’t stupid enough as to think you’re just going to up and leave the New World to take up farming or some shit. Not with what’s coming. But if you go back, she’s damn well gonna be a priority.”

“Aye,” Shanks said, and he thought the distinct lack of a pause made an impression, although he wasn’t about to think Garp was pleased by the fact. “That was never in question.”

Garp snorted. “You’ll excuse me if things look a little different from where I’m standing,” he drawled, but his gaze drifted to Makino’s kerchief again, before he dragged his eyes back.

“She might have changed her mind,” Shanks said then, and once again, didn’t know why — didn’t know why he was recklessly seeking the confirmation that he feared. Or maybe it was the opposite he sought, and desperately — some kind of indication that he wasn’t a fool for hoping she was still waiting for him. Because like his grandson, here was another link; another person who knew, and who, for all his disapproval, Shanks knew would be honest.

And so when Garp said, “She hasn’t,” it took effort not to openly demonstrate the relief that coursed through him; a riptide he was surprised left him standing.

“Oh, don’t give me that look,” Garp snapped then, expression contorting suddenly with something that wasn’t anger, but wanted desperately to be. “Don’t you fucking look _relieved_. I don’t give a damn that you’re happy. All I give a damn about is that _she_ is. Can you do that, Red-Hair?”

“If she’ll have me, yeah,” Shanks said. And he didn’t know if he could make that promise, with all it implied. He didn’t know what the future looked like; the destruction around them was testament enough to that. All he knew was that he wanted her in it.

Garp’s sneer didn’t pack the punch he no doubt intended it to. “Always knew how to give the right answers, huh?” He snorted. “Smarmy bastard. Just like Roger.”

Shanks said nothing to that, but Garp seemed to have reached his quota for interactions with people he’d rather not have in his life, and he was about to turn and walk away when he stopped, and seemed to be considering something.

Then, hard gaze fixed on Shanks, and this time it did feel like a blow, “You damn well better keep her safe, Red-Hair,” Garp said, and Shanks felt the damning promise even before he added, “Or there isn’t a place on any ocean that’ll keep _you_ safe.”

He turned then, ready to walk away, but before he’d taken so much as a step, Shanks called out — “I’ll get you the coordinates.” When Garp inclined his head to look at him, he added, “To where we’re burying them.”

Garp stood still, and for a moment he seemed to look beyond what was in front of him — beyond the battlefield and the bodies, and whatever impressions Shanks invoked, standing at their heart, untouched from the battle, if not from the war.

Then, without another word, he moved to walk away. There was no reproach for usurping a man’s right to bury his own grandchild, and no accusation that Shanks had only said it to ingratiate himself. But then, however heavy his disapproval of him, Shanks doubted Garp actually thought him capable of that.

There were no words of gratitude offered, either. In fact, he said nothing at all, but then silence from Monkey D. Garp had always spoken louder than his bluster.

And the hunched, rigid shoulders as the old marine retreated were telling enough, even before Shanks caught the way they shook.

 

—

 

Even with his decision to go back having been made that day on the battlefield, the sea hadn't allowed him his due at once, and six whole months had passed after the war before he could once again rest his eyes on the East Blue horizon, for the first time in over ten years.

The temperate waters stretched out from beneath the cut of the prow, the horizon glittering white under a blinding sun, and the slight disturbance of the dancing light the only thing separating the quiet sea from the unblemished sky overhead. Below, the waves made no demands, frothing merrily against the hull, and he'd almost forgotten what it was like to sail on oceans whose tempers didn't shift with the tides.

In the distance, the first sight of Dawn Island winked at them, the barest speck of green amidst an endless canvas of blue.

"Never thought I'd see this sight again."

Shanks raised a brow at the utterance from somewhere at his right elbow, but his smile came with ease when he looked for it. "You had doubts I'd get us back, Ben?"

A snort was his answer as Ben came to stand beside him by the railing, the veins of white in his grey hair lit silver by the sun. The years had done a number on all of them, but as Shanks was always happy to remind his first mate, some were just unfortunate enough to show it more than others.

The fact that Ben would readily use Shanks as an excuse for his premature grey hair, now that was a whole other matter.

As though having read his mind, "You had me worried for a second when you decided to make a guest appearance at the war of the century," Ben deadpanned, sliding Shanks a look as he made to light a cigarette.

Shanks felt his smile twist, but let it. He never bothered to keep up appearances around Ben. "Ah, but you know me, Ben. I do so love making a memorable entrance.”

Ben made a noncommittal noise, and pretended he hadn't heard the underlying grief in that statement, even as it came to sit, as tangible on the air as the ever-present smell of cigarette smoke, although the latter was a far more welcome thing.

And it was a reaction Shanks had expected, and not for the first time in his captaincy did he find himself infinitely grateful for Ben being Ben, no demands made unless necessary, and his counsel an implicit offer, should he want it. And right now, with the East Blue’s tender welcome and the promise to see her no more than an hour away, if the sea was as kind as she seemed, Shanks didn’t want to dwell on his mistakes. There’d be time enough for that later. He owed her the stories, after all; the good as well as the bad.

But the thoughts crept in despite his attempts at keeping them at bay, of the bad things that had piled up, and kept piling up, just over the past year. Burying an old rival, the man he'd always thought would outlive them all and then some, and the brother who'd meant the world to Luffy in the same day had added more years to his life than the last decade altogether. It was a world of regrets, a war he'd just barely stopped, and lives that shouldn't have been lost. It had been a mistake on the Government's part, and one the world would not soon forget.

The thought had something clenching within him — not quite regret, but something close, and, "Do you think she was watching?" he asked, eyes fixed on that small sliver of green in the distance.

Another perk with having a first mate who knew to recognise every shift in your mood was that Ben had no trouble keeping up with the line of conversation, no matter how out of the blue Shanks' remarks might appear.

"The whole world was watching," Ben replied, crossing his arms over his chest, the truth offered without mercy, but then that was his way, and Shanks hadn’t expected anything else where that was concerned, either.

He tried not to think about it — the things she might have seen, and what she’d made of them. His reputation was a different one now than it had been when he’d left her ten years ago, and he doubted it had escaped her, even in the quiet corner of her gentle sea.

Ten years’ worth of newspapers and rumours, and he wondered what she thought of him now. Titles and ranks meant little in the East Blue, and the New World was as foreign to her as the fictional seas in her books. _Emperor_ might mean nothing, or it might mean everything. Because even if she didn’t care about the significance, Shanks knew she’d understand it, and what it implied.

There was no loving just the man and not the pirate, and even if she had loved both once, he was a different pirate now than he’d been when they’d parted ways.

"Of course," Ben said then, tone dryly musing, "if she didn't see it, she'll have read the papers by now. It's been almost half a year."

Shanks exhaled a laugh. And he recognised the offering for what it was; Ben’s skillful nudging of the conversation onto a lighter path, of good-humoured self-deprecation. He’d probably picked up on where Shanks’ thoughts had wandered. "I'm late.”

Ben snorted. "Something of an understatement. Strange, with you so prone to exaggeration. Are you well?"

Shanks ignored the jibe. "I said she'd know, when Luffy got his first bounty. How many times has it been raised so far?"

"More than what’s normal, for a rookie that young.”

"In my defence though, she did say I'd be late."

"Which says more about her patience with you than it does about your reliability, although that's always been up for debate."

 _"Hey,”_ Shanks warned with a laugh. "That's a bit below the belt, even for you."

Ben arched a brow. "Was I lying?"

"Wouldn't kill you to do so once in a while."

"You're an amazing captain," Ben deadpanned.

"Oh c'mon, you're not even trying!"

Ben only shook his head. "How she puts up with you will remain one of the world’s great mysteries.”

Shanks grinned. "There you go. That's a lie I'll believe."

"Your selective hearing is another.”

“My selective what?”

Ben sighed, and Shanks laughed, turning his gaze back to the horizon. Dawn Island was an ever-growing shape, rising out of the water, and looking at it now it was suddenly hard to draw breath, feeling the distance between them shrinking with every minute. It had been a long voyage from the New World, but only now did he allow himself to really feel it — the fact that he was going back.

"Ten years," Shanks said then, two simple words offered into the quiet, but he knew Ben heard the things he didn’t say.

"And then some," he agreed.

"It's a long time."

Ben shrugged. "Time is relative."

"I'm pretty sure most people would agree it's a long time to keep someone waiting."

The corner of Ben’s mouth lifted a bit, and he raised his brows. "She's not just anyone."

His grin came, almost too quick to fathom. “No, she’s not.” And ten years be damned, that the thought of her could ease his heart as much as it did would never cease to surprise him, well-worn as the memory was.

He tried to picture it — how she’d been, heart-shaped face and bottomless eyes. A decade did a number on the human memory, but there was a faded picture tucked in the folds of his cloak, slipped from her belongings once without her knowledge. And she would have smacked him fondly and named him a shameless thief if she knew, but thief or not, it was a possession he wouldn't be without.

He’d rested his hand on the pommel of his word, and he allowed it to drop, touching his fingertips to the faded kerchief. Another token stolen — a favour pilfered, not given, but then he _was_ a pirate, not a knight. And even if he couldn’t conjure the sound of her laughter or the lilt of her voice, he remembered how she’d been that day, her hair loose and her mouth pursed with a barely-contained smile, and her pleasure with his thievery bright in her dark eyes.

He looked at the island, growing larger, and wondered what she was doing — if she kept him in her mind throughout the day still, or if he'd faded to an afterthought. The girl he remembered would have come running down to the wharf to greet them, but that was a long time ago, and he had no way of knowing if their arrival now would even bring a smile to her face.

 _Come back to me_ , she'd said. He still remembered the force behind the words; the order given without apology, but that had been ten years ago, and ten years was a long time to be in love with an absent man.

There were still Garp’s words, from that day in Marineford; the gruff assertion that she hadn’t changed her mind. But even that was six months behind him now, and before the full events of the war had reached her corner of the world. And six months was half a year, when he’d already kept her waiting ten. It was enough time for a heart to change, that had previously made its choice.

The thought left a sharp ache behind his ribcage, and for a moment Shanks wondered if he was courting anything but regrets, going back.

"I just— I need something to go right," he said then, and didn’t know if it was for Ben's sake or his own, but, "This past year..." He sighed, a heavy exhale dragging loose of him, and with it, he allowed his composure to slip.

It was a rare demonstration of honest exhaustion, something very few had the privilege of witnessing, at least outside of his crew. The New World had no patience for weakness, and little mercy for those who showed it, especially in his position.

But showing weakness wasn’t the same as not showing strength. A one-armed swordsman with no army or fleet under his command raised brows, but the notoriety of his unflappable cheer was as effective as if he’d thrown his weight around with exaggerated demonstrations of physical prowess. Aggression was expected, but in Shanks’ experience, an easy-going nature on a sea like the New World could be just as terrifying.

And it wasn’t like he had to fake his cheer. His good humour always lurked beneath the surface — it was his personality, after all, and not quite as removable as his physical appendages — but Shanks knew he was far from untouchable. He could smile until his cheeks hurt, but that didn't change the fact that he saw the ghosts of his mistakes when he closed his eyes, and dreamed of looming gravestones over graves he'd dug himself.

Ben knew, but then Ben had helped dig the graves, and kindred spirits see the same ghosts. There were no secrets between them — there never had been, but not all truths had to be spoken out loud.

And he hadn’t told him, although he thought Ben might know, that not all the dreams were memories, but premonitions. A new grave, wildflowers sprouting from the upturned soil, white with a dark heart, and the smiling eyes in his memory closing for the very last time.

He thought of Garp’s warning, and the island waiting ahead of them. The paradox that he couldn’t quite reconcile himself with, wanting to keep her safe, but also wanting her to choose him, even knowing that she wouldn’t be safe if she did.

And there was the question he couldn’t avoid — the fear that he was making a mistake, going back; that the selfish desire to have a future with her would ultimately spell her demise.

“Whatever you’re thinking,” Ben said then, “you might as well be shouting it.”

“Don’t tempt me. I might just start.”

Ben just looked at him. “What is it?”

Shanks sighed. “I’m just wondering if I’m making the right choice.”

“For you?”

“You know that’s not what I’m talking about, Ben.”

“I do,” Ben said. “You’ve barely slept in two days, you’ve been so excited. Doc threatened a mutiny, if only so we could toss you in the brig so you could get some rest. And give us some rest.” His look turned hard then. “But you’re not going to make her choice for her.”

“Isn’t that what I’m already doing?”

“You give yourself too much credit,” Ben countered, but there was none of his usual, dry lilt to the words, just a short, sharp efficiency. He wasn’t teasing now. “You’re not going back to drag her with you. She can still send you packing, but at least you’re giving her the chance to make that choice for herself.”

Despite himself — and the worry that still lurked under his skin, that it was a very real possibility she might do just that — Shanks smiled. He gave Ben a searching look. “You know, I’m hard pressed to decide if this is you offering wisdom because I need it, or because you’ve got a vested interest in this reunion.”

Ben’s expression was far too casual. “We all want to see you happy, Boss.”

“Mhm. So how much have you contributed to the betting pool?”

Ben took a long drag of his cigarette. Then, mouth quirking, “Which one?”

Shanks gaped. “How many are there?”

“I’m not at liberty to say.”

“Ben, I’m your captain.”

He shrugged. “I don’t know the exact number.”

“ _Liar_.”

Ben only smiled, but Shanks found his own grin was hard to shake, and when he looked at Dawn Island again his heart sat a little lighter in his chest.

And however questionable his motives, Ben did have a point — the choice was ultimately Makino’s to make. The same as any of his crew, new and old, but all of whom had chosen to join him of their own free will, and he wouldn’t take that away from her now just because he was scared of what it might bring her. It was the life he’d chosen himself, after all — the freedom _to_ choose. A pirate’s life, with all it entailed.

The thought made his mind drift, back to the sea they’d left, and, "You think the kid's doing okay?" Shanks asked, after a lull had passed.

Ben was silent a moment, considering the quiet waters ahead of them now. It was an age since they’d had such smooth sailing. “No,” he said then, because for all of Shanks’ teasing suggestions to the opposite, he’d never been one to lie. "But he will be. People like that never stay down for long.” He considered his cigarette. “Although if he’ll be the same…” He shrugged, and put it back to his lips. “Grief can change a person.”

Shanks tried to picture the scrawny little boy with the larger-than-life presence he’d last seen crying on the Fuschia docks, and felt the corner of his mouth lift, although his smile had a sombre edge to it now. “Here’s hoping he'll come back, guns blazing," he said, although he had a feeling it was more for his own benefit.

Casting a sideways glance, he caught Ben's smirk as he said, "Fists swinging. From what I've heard, he packs one hell of a punch."

"Punch as strong as a pistol, huh?" Shanks mused, and the sombre edge bled away.

"Lives up to his promises,” Ben agreed. Then, his look suddenly laden as he took another drag of his cigarette, “Heard he gave Teach a beating before he broke out of Impel Down."

Something slithered across the lining of his stomach at the name, and the scars on his face seemed almost to respond. But he shoved the feeling down, and resisted the urge to press his hand to his brow. That was a battle for another day. One of many still to come, and ten years had changed little in that regard.

And he didn’t know what Ben expected him to say to that. He was one of the few who knew the story behind the scars, and the old grudge that the years had done little to soften, at least going by Blackbeard’s greeting in Marineford.

And maybe there was a warning there, if implicit. Not like Garp’s, thrown like a punch —  _you damn well better keep her safe, Red-Hair —_  but then Shanks didn’t doubt that Ben was aware he’d considered the possibility; that it had factored into his decision to go back.

But unlike Garp, Ben didn’t offer condemnation, or the promise of swift and painful retribution. And like his warning, this was implicit, too — the promise that, whatever his choices, Shanks wasn’t facing the consequences alone.

"Reckless idiot," Shanks sighed instead, fingers twitching. He curled them around the hilt of his sword, thumb brushing against the kerchief, an old distraction sought and claimed. "Breaking into the world's most impenetrable prison. And then back out again."

"Jealous he beat you to it?"

"Ha! _Way_ too much effort for me, Ben. You know me better than that."

"This from the man who decided to put an end to a war."

Shanks shrugged, and pretended it felt as easy as it looked. "I have my moments."

"You have one too many moments, if you ask me," Ben muttered around his cigarette.

"No one asked you. Not that it’s ever stopped you from voicing your opinion.”

“You’ve always valued freedom of speech,” Ben countered.

“Yeah, but would it kill you to be _nice_?”

“I am extremely nice,” Ben deadpanned. “But if what you want is flattery, you’ll have to look elsewhere.” Then, “Maybe Makino will indulge you.”

“She did call me the prettiest man she’d ever met,” Shanks mused. “If memory serves.”

“It does,” Ben said, dryly. “Given how many times you’ve told us.”

“You sound so dubious, Ben. Do I need to remind you just who it was that magazine ranked at the very top of the 'Ten Hottest Pirates in the New World' list? Oh, right. That was _me_."

"In the age-group forty and up, if I remember." Ben smirked. "It's interesting that you're not upset about that detail _."_

"So not the  _point_ , Ben." And under his breath, "It's a miracle you remember anything at your age."

"I remember the important things."

" _Har_. You’re hilarious, did you know?"

"I happen to have it on good authority that I'm quite funny."

"Yeah? Whose authority would that be?"

Ben only smiled. "Makino's."

Shanks raised his brows. "Oh really, you're going there?"

Ben shrugged. "Ten years is a long time."

"Yeah, you can tell just by looking at you."

"You said it yourself. She might have changed her mind."

"She might also have married a melon farmer _."_

"You know very well she hasn't, or you wouldn't be going back," Ben countered smoothly.

Shanks closed his mouth, and kept from pointing out that even if she hadn’t married anyone or settled down, she might still decide that he wasn’t what she wanted for a future. But— there was that stubborn hope again, the remnants of the relief he’d felt, when Garp had looked at him in Marineford and told him she hadn’t changed her mind.

He had mixed feelings about it, like everything else. Part of him was relieved — a too-large part, wholly selfish, that remembered so keenly how she'd fit against him, and what it had felt like to be at the centre of eyes that had seen more than most, but that hadn’t looked at him differently for it. The other part felt guilty she'd lived to see off two kids without being left with any of her own. Without Ace and Luffy she couldn't have many others left in her life, save that shameless old seamstress, if she was even still alive.

"It's too late to regret your choices now," Ben reminded him then, as though having sensed where his thoughts had gone.

Shanks sighed, and didn’t bother pretending that wasn’t what he’d been thinking about. "Some days it feels like regrets are all I'm finding. Like termites in the planks." He shook his head. "It's difficult keeping track of the good choices I've made."

Ben snorted. "You always had a knack for melodrama."

“It’s called feeling _strongly_ , and I’ve always thought it was one of my better qualities."

"I know a certain barmaid who’d contest the notion that you have those."

"Only because you've been a bad influence," Shanks retorted. "She got real sassy, real quick after she met you."

"I don’t think my influence is the one to blame here. I wasn't the one pushing all her buttons."

"Okay, but in all fairness, she made it so easy.” He grinned. “But on that note, are you implying that I'm _annoying?"_

“Was it implied? I meant to make it explicit.”

“Who hurt you, Ben?”

Ben smiled around his cigarette. “You’ll forgive me, Captain. You just make it so _easy_.”

“God,” Shanks laughed. “She’ll have a field day, with you spurring her on. I don’t know if I’ll survive your combined efforts.”

“They haven’t killed you yet.”

“Not for lack of trying, clearly.”

"At least wait until we make it to Fuschia, or this whole voyage will have been a waste."

"C'mon, Ben. No need to pretend.” His grin was knowing, and making no effort to hide it. “You know you're as eager to see her as everyone else."

Ben merely smiled, but said nothing, and Shanks didn't push the subject. He hadn't been blind to the man's feelings back then, but like so many things between them, it was a comfortable weight, balanced out by years of camaraderie that it would take far more than a little envy to shake.

"You think she'll be surprised?" he asked then, watching the island. He wondered if they’d caught sight of his sails yet — and if so, what she thought about it.

"You’re late," was all Ben said.

"But you don't think she'll hold that against me, do you?"

"Oh, no. After all, it's not like you've kept her waiting ten years."

"Ha.  _Funny."_

"Just saying it like it is, Captain," Ben said, before turning away from the railing. "I'll be in the galley until we dock. Don't fall overboard."

"You'd jump after me!" Shanks called back, but Ben only raised a hand in a parting salute, although he caught a fleeting, unmistakably vulgar gesture before his best friend disappeared around the corner. He resisted the urge to stick his tongue out.

Shaking his head, Shanks turned his gaze back to the island, and the little port waiting, still too far away to make out clearly. But with anticipation filling his chest, he chased the ghosts out of his mind, a selfish moment claimed to finally take in the fact that he’d soon be seeing her again.

A small smile lifting, he thought of the books on his desk — ten years of collecting, and of suffering a whole crew’s worth of teasing, even as they’d in the next breath offer their own contributions, their own notes in the margins and bookmarks ranging from newspaper clippings to photographs, fragmented tales-within-tales of what they’d been doing for the past decade, left for her to find.

And there was one volume in particular, old and well-thumbed, the inscription on the cover faded and the binding simple — no engravings of sea and sirens, or gilded edges. But he knew the story, every inconceivable plot-twist and poorly researched nautical term, and if he concentrated now he could almost conjure the sound of her voice; the trill of her vowels and her consonants as she read. The years might have dulled the memory beyond recalling, but the shadow of it was still there, seeming just beyond reach — a muted crescendo rising with the softly insistent push against his ship, the once-gentle sea suddenly impatient, after so long spent waiting.

With a grin ghosting over his features, Shanks let his mind clear of the image he’d kept of her, turning his thoughts instead to how she'd look now. A vein of silver or two in her hair, maybe. Plenty of laugh-lines at the corners of her eyes, hopefully.

That she’d carry her years better than him, he had no doubt, but the anticipation brimming under his skin now was a young, boyish feeling. And suddenly he felt none of his years and none of his ghosts, watching the horizon, quicksilver under the sun, and the island that had for so long remained out of reach, wholly unassuming, but like that quiet day well over a decade ago when he’d first laid eyes on it, promising more than its gentle appearance suggested.

And maybe it was selfish, wanting a cut of the life he could imagine without effort, even though it was so far from what he knew — a long-earned peace, and a heart that knew his own; that had chosen it, in spite of everything that came with it. A legacy that was more than war and endless contests for power, on a sea that never stood still.

But if it was selfish, then he’d let himself be that, for once. He still had his part to play in the stories of others, but ten years was a damn long time, and he had his own to live, too.

—" ** _Land ho~!"_**

And this was just the opening chapter.

 


	18. denouement; a wave cresting

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I've switched some things around for the rewrite, and added some new stuff. This is what was once chapter 17, rewritten and expanded, barring the post-timeskip epilogue, which I've also reworked and made into its own chapter.

The long-awaited day, when it was finally upon her, turned out to be a day like any other.

A white-hot sun had driven the morning mist from the shore, leaving a quiet sea, unblemished under clear skies that stretched forever. There was no warning in the weather, and not even an inkling of premonition of what awaited as she set about doing her opening routines, the windows thrown wide to let in the sea breeze and a hum sitting on her tongue as she worked. Just another day of business, wholly unremarkable but for one rather significant detail.

She'd been in the process of stacking clean glasses behind the bar when she heard the shout, cutting through the soft cries of the seagulls and the muted tumult of a quiet village morning—

_" **Pirates! Pirates at the docks!"**_

—and was out the door running before she'd had time to take her apron off.

Ten years had seen to it that she wasn’t a girl anymore, but with her skirt gripped to keep from tripping, Makino left them all on her porch, abandoned along with whatever dignity she might have once entertained greeting their arrival as she set off toward the wharf at a run. And despite the shrill cry that had disturbed the quiet, the villagers seemed more eager than afraid, which only served to strengthen her belief that it was familiar sails they’d spotted.

Passing by a shaded awning, beneath which a small, knotted shape lay reclining in a sun-chair, the old woman didn’t even lift her head as she called after her — “He’s late!”

Makino threw a grin over her shoulder, but didn't slow down, weaving between villagers whose knowing smiles trailed in her wake all the way down to the shore—

“Look at her go—”

“Good thing Garp isn’t here for this. If Dadan didn’t kill him, I’m pretty sure this would have done the trick—”

“—and have a care now, Ma-chan, you’re not a girl anymore!”

—and whose good-natured remarks kissed at her heels as she ran, but she had no mind to spare any of them. And even if she’d had even half a mind, her heart sat too close to her throat for her voice to shape a reply, and every single thing she’d ever imagined she’d do on this day saw fit to leave her along with her words.

She'd imagined it a hundred times over, every detail of his return carefully laid out and considered, from every angle and with every possibility taken into account — the weather and the day, down to the hour, and the steps it would take her to get from the tavern to the docks from a brisk walk to an outright run.

She'd considered the last more than any other option, running towards him and throwing her arms around his neck, to bury her face in his throat — like the lost king returned in one of her favourite books, and how many times had she imagined that scene, the king no king at all but a pirate, and she anything but a queen, but the sentiment would be there still, a curious fit.

Of course, then she'd remember that she's thirty years old, and Shanks even older, and that running-into-each-other's-arms was a reunion better suited for much younger people. And as she'd grown older, the years had calmed her heart, and she'd imagined other scenarios — she'd be polishing her glasses one day and he'd be there in her doorway, and she'd ask him to order his drink or get out of it. Or she'd be sitting up at the hilltop under the tree and he'd come and take a seat beside her, and that would be it. No irrational overflow of emotions; just a simple, quiet return.

She was entertaining the same thoughts as the wharf came into view, and she faltered, slowing her run to a brisk pace, and then at last to a walk. Because ten years was a long time, and it might not be the same man returning who’d left.

But— she thought of Garp then, seated at her bar six months ago, nursing a drink and a bleeding lip, and _I ran into Red-Hair._

She’d almost been afraid to breathe, the glass stilling in her hand. _Oh?_

 _He looked old,_ he’d told her, with a snort.

 _It’s been ten years,_ she’d said, and knew he’d heard what she’d been really saying; the question she couldn’t bear make herself voice, to ask if he’d said anything — if he'd given any indication at all that he was coming back to her.

But Garp had looked at her then, tired gaze shifting to the kerchief tying her hair back, and for the briefest of seconds, the barest ghost of a smile had lifted the corner of his mouth.

 _Yeah_ , he’d said. _Damn crook should be due any day, then._

She’d barely been able to live with the hope, after that. She’d seen the broadcast, and what the papers had made of the aftermath. And if it hadn’t been for Garp, she might have lost it; that last, stubborn grip she’d kept on her faith, loosening a little more every year, and with every new wanted poster bearing Luffy’s name.

Still. It had been half a year since the war, and Garp’s vague remark hadn’t given her any clues as to what she might expect. And maybe it would be too much, demonstrating her excitement so openly, and so close to everything that had happened, when she had no way of knowing what burdens he might carry with him off the gangway.

But then she reached the top of the rise leading down to the docks and  _saw_  him, red hair lit like fire under the sun and an achingly familiar grin stretching wide across his face, and  _ten years had been a bloody long time._

She broke into a run, tossing her very last care to the wind, hair slipping free of her kerchief and feet protesting the strain as she covered the remaining distance in a flat-out sprint, the crew gathered at the docks stepping smoothly out of the way to let her to pass, some wearing expressions of surprise; others all too knowing grins.

The sound of the old planks yielding under her feet sang throughout the wharf, and the wild swell of feeling in her chest was almost too much when their gazes finally locked, and when they collided there was enough force behind it to send Shanks stumbling back a few steps. But his laughter was so loud in her ears and the strong arm that wound around her back like a vice so familiar, between them there was no room left for regrets at her impulsive behaviour.

She felt him exhaling as she pushed into him, hands buried in the cloak at his back, the dark fabric warmed by the sun and his spine curving under her palms as he pressed her as close as she’d come. And for one staggering moment she was twenty years old again, and the ten years of their separation lifted like a physical weight off her shoulders, taking what remained of her breath with it.

There was a fleeting thought that she’d conjured the whole thing — the good weather, the quiet laughter of the crew standing around them, and _him_ , warm and solid under her hands. And with that thought crept in a fear, a small, quivering slip of a thing, but she felt it; the sudden sense that any moment now she’d wake in her own bed, reaching, but there’d be nothing to greet her touch but a cold space that had been empty for a decade.

But the arm pressing against her back felt too real to be something spun to life by her own imagination, the one-armed embrace too hard to be tender; and she’d forgotten what his laughter sounded like, but she could hear it now, clear as the day and filling her whole.

"That's quite the welcome for someone who's kept you waiting so long."

The voice rose up, a warm thrum through the chest under her cheek before it fell against her ear with a familiar chuckle, and she could have sobbed from the sound of it, and her answering laugh was choked with tears as she pulled back enough to look at him.

Shanks' grin was sheepish, but the note of regret in his eyes wholly genuine. "Although to be fair, you did say yourself that I'd be late."

Makino looked for her words, but found none — every clever or witty remark she’d ever imagined slipping her mind, and even the earnest, heartfelt ones saw fit to leave her in the same, starved breath, and for a moment all she did was look at him.

He hadn't changed much — that was the first, semi-coherent thought that registered, when her mind had stopped spinning long enough to catch up with the rest of her. Broader over the shoulders than she remembered, and seeming sturdier, somehow; his hair a little longer, drawn back and out of his eyes, bared along with the scars. Grey-and-green, like the sea when it stormed.

But the smile was the same — the one that was hers, laughter written in the lines at the corners of his eyes, and the naked emotion she found in the dark gaze holding her own was almost enough to make her knees buckle under her weight.

There was a vague inkling at the back of her mind that she hadn’t said or done anything beyond throwing herself at him, and Makino could keenly feel the eyes of the crew on them now, watching without reservations, a tremor of anticipation sitting under the air, ripe with salt and the summer sun. And ten years ago that might have been enough to make her pause, shy where he was shameless, and she’d never been comfortable with an audience.

But ten years had been a long time, and reunions spent on polite greetings were wasted, _clearly._

She drew a short, sharp breath, not for courage but from the urge that gripped her, ten years with only memories at hand, and the truth of him before her so compelling she wouldn’t have minded an audience twice the size of their current one.

Shanks must have read her intention on her face, because she caught his grin widening a second before she’d thrown her arms around his neck, claiming his mouth in a fierce kiss and burying her hands in his hair, and _restraint_ seemed a long-forgotten concept as the arm around her lower back cinched tight, nearly lifting her toes off the docks.

She felt his grin, wicked and laughing, and he still kissed like she remembered — with his whole self, the insistent slant of his mouth leaving no room to catch her breath as he dipped his head lower to deepen the kiss, but she matched him this time, touch for greedy touch, even as her hands shook where they’d slid from his hair to grip his jaw.

There was little in the way of elegance, sheer desperation making her touches clumsy as she tried to map all the small changes at once — more scruff on his chin than she remembered, and the width of his shoulders new under her fingertips, but she pressed herself as close as she would come; fitted herself against his larger frame, unmindful of the harder edges, until there was no space left for breath.

Shanks laughed against her mouth, and, “I hope you realise we’ll never hear the end of this,” came the murmur, the deep cadence settling low in her stomach, leaving her lightheaded, and she thought he must have sensed it, from grin she felt ghosting along her jaw.

That ever-expanding well of feeling behind her ribcage felt like it was about to break it, and, “Let them,” Makino said. And when he ducked his head to kiss her again, tongue dipping into her mouth for a kiss that didn’t give a damn that it had an audience, she felt it all the way into the furthest corner of her soul, which seemed to heave a long-held breath as the last ten years bled out of her.

Someone let loose a whopping _hoot_ , before a sharp, playful whistle to their left had her breaking the kiss, tucking her brow into the crook of his neck, cheeks flushing, but Shanks only pulled her closer, still shameless where she was prone to shyness. Makino stole a glance over his shoulder to find a look and a handful of coins passing between Ben and Yasopp, the former startlingly grey-haired, before the gesture was echoed between the pirates crowding the docks around them.

The young remnant of an old mortification had her laughter falling, light and winded against his shirt as he eased her back down, and she felt Shanks’ follow suit, the sound of it warm and loud where it enveloped her own, followed by the tightening of his arm around her.

Slipping out of his grip, the touch of his fingertips against her back lingering, as though reluctant to let her go, she made for Ben first; features a little harder than she remembered, but the wry amusement was the same, drawing her forward, and this time he accepted her embrace without hesitation.

"Sorry for the delay," came the dry quip against her ear, and she laughed, about to pull back to respond when a hand on her shoulder had her spinning, and wiry arms wound around her, pressing the breath from her lungs as Yasopp pulled her in for a rough hug.

"You're lovely as ever, Ma-chan! Ten years did _you_ favours," he laughed, before drawing back with a wink. "Unlike Cap over there. Sure you got a good enough look when you came running down? He looks worse up close."

The clever retort at the tip of her tongue, coming quicker now that she’d had time to catch her breath, was swallowed with her yelp as she was suddenly hoisted up in the air, feet leaving the docks completely, and she looked down into Lucky's familiar grin. "Pretty as a pork-loin! Can't tell it's been ten years, Makino."

"The years have been kinder to some than others," Ben agreed, with a meaningful glance at Shanks, who was watching the spectacle with a long-suffering smile.

“Look at you all, usurping my reunion. And that's rich coming from you, Ben!"

"I never specified who I was referring to," Ben countered breezily.

“You could not have made it more clear," Shanks deadpanned.

Ben lifted a single brow. “Is that a challenge?”

She caught Shanks slipping a mutter about reckless insubordination under his breath. Then, wryly, "Hey, Lucky. You can put her down now."

The grip around the backs of her legs tightened where she sat perched on Lucky’s arm. "You've had your turn, Boss."

Yasopp snorted his agreement. "Necking like a teenager, too. And you, almost forty years old." He shook his head. "Ma-chan, you spoil him."

Makino laughed as Lucky set her back on her feet. "Oh, don't I know it," she said, tucking a loose lock of hair back into her kerchief from where it had escaped, and pushing her braid back over her shoulder.

When she looked at Shanks again it was to find a curious expression on his face, the familiar arch of his brow and the smile having eased along his mouth caught somewhere between marvelling and something akin to melancholy.

She sought Ben’s gaze, but didn't need to say anything as he returned the unspoken question with a nod, before calling out, "The ship isn't going to unload itself. Get to it."

A chorus of "Aye!" rang out across the wharf, before the crew dispersed, and Makino felt the release of their collective attention like a physical thing, until they’d cleared the docks completely, leaving the two of them in the shade of the ship’s hull.

The sudden, striking familiarity of the scene hit her with surprising force, but the old sorrow was nowhere to be found as Shanks said, musingly, "I knew there was a reason I kept him around.”

Then he turned his gaze on her again, and the realisation that  _he was back_  settled across her shoulders with palpable weight, and the sheer force of it was such that she felt suddenly like sitting down, at once lethargic and out of her mind with happiness, and unable to decide which of them to choose.

Shanks must have taken notice of her conflict, because when he stepped forward all he did was draw her close, the action near-overwhelming in its simplicity, and she welcomed the embrace without a word, resting her brow against his chest and letting the din of the wharf fade into background noise.

"Hey."

The single word fell, a breathless laugh against her hair, and Makino hid her smile against his shirt. "Hey."

He shifted, and she felt the warmth of his hand moving from her hip to her lower back, before settling. Then, his chest caving with an exhale that seemed to carry more than just his breath, the slight hunch of his shoulders spoke of a long-held composure slipping, but all she did was tighten her arms around his waist, the gesture telling, and the length of him a comfortable weight to bear.

A beat passed where he allowed her to carry it, before his hand moved up her spine, fingers splaying between her shoulder blades as he righted himself, pressing her close. And held against him, the feeling that washed over her — the familiar safety of being in his presence punctuated by the protective enclosure of his lone arm — was enough to threaten to make her knees give out again.

"Ten years," Shanks said then, a note of disbelief slipping into his voice, the deep sound of it lightened by the breathless chuckle that followed.

Makino tucked her head against his shoulder so she could look up at him. "Ten years.”

He laughed, the sound louder now, a warm rumble pushing against his ribcage. "Is there an echo here?"

She nudged his shoulder, but joined him in his laughter, unable to find anything else to offer, and had to shake her head at the whole situation. There was so much to be said between them — ten years’ worth of news and stories long-promised, tales both tall and regular, and less-coherent things, endless strings of words she could feel as they pushed up her throat now, _how have you been how have you lived have you missed me as much as I've missed you because I haven't been able to breathe right without you_ , but all they could seem to manage between them were staggeringly mundane platitudes.

But it didn’t matter, Makino found, because they had time for that, now. Time to catch up and a lifetime together if she had her way, and she found that she didn't need to speak just yet if she could remain in his presence a little longer.

She felt the hand pressed against her back lifting, and, “You grew your hair long,” Shanks said, the softly musing words offered with the trail of his fingers along the length of her braid, resting against her spine.

Drawing back to look at him, it was an effort keeping her smile contained. “I had ten years on my hands. And you know there’s not a lot going on here.”

He grinned. “Glad to see that hasn’t changed.” He touched his fingers to her neck where her hair was coming loose of the braid, his eyes smiling as he threaded his fingers through it, and she had the sudden, girlish urge to ask if he liked it, although she could imagine his answer already — that it wasn’t the hair he liked but the girl, even if she wasn’t technically a girl anymore.

“You know,” he said then, gaze leaving her hair to seek hers. “I had a long-haired phase a few years back.”

Makino felt her smile widening. “Oh really?”

He shrugged. “Yasopp kept giving me grief for it, so it was a short-lived thing.” Then under his breath, “Although I don’t know what makes him an authority on the subject. Dreads in his forties.” He shook his head.

She laughed, loud and trilling, and saw how his eyes crinkled at the corners at the sound. “I should have liked to see it,” she said, raising her own to his hair now, falling against his neck. She tried to picture it longer, curled at the nape, or tied back. The image was a startlingly pleasing thing.

“Yeah?” His smile was entirely boyish, and she was momentarily so distracted by what it did to his face, she could only stare. And her expression much show it, from the way Shanks’ grin widened even further, full of familiar, unabashed gratification. “Maybe I’ll give it another go.”

She dropped her eyes, her own smile making her cheeks hurt, and she heard his laughter as it fell, soft and delighted into the small breath of space still left between them.

Rough fingers curling under her chin then, tilting her head up, and for a moment all he did was look at her, touching his thumb to the curve of her cheek as he surveyed her face, as though to map the changes, and the things he remembered.

Strange, how she’d once cowered under that intimate look, embarrassed by his open appreciation. Now all she found was pleasure, a wild flutter within her pushing up beneath the warmth that was already there, until she felt like it might burst, bright sunlight from under her skin.

“So?” Makino asked, when Shanks had done nothing but watch her.

A brow lifted, pulling gently at the scars, and his smile was a bemused quirk of the lips. “So?”

“What’s the verdict?” she asked. “Will you have me, or should I be taking my chances with your first mate?”

He laughed — a startled sunburst of sound. “You joke, but the guys were planning on lining up so you could choose.” His brow furrowed a bit, a show of feigned worry. “I actually think they still might.”

“So many options,” Makino mused.

His eyes gleamed, a teasing warning in the quick flash of his smile. “I wouldn’t mind wooing you again if I had to.” The fingers under her chin shifted, until he was gripping it gently, and familiar warmth pooled in her stomach when he added, “You’ll remember I can be very convincing.”

She hummed a laugh, feeling suddenly winded, but her look turned meaningful as Shanks touched his thumb lightly to the corner of her mouth. “I'm not sure. You might have to refresh my memory.”

She _felt_ his look now. “Keep saying things like that and this reunion is about to become a lot more graphic.”

Her smile was so wide it hurt, and it felt like her chest didn’t have room for all her laughter. And Makino had to wonder what she’d been feeling for ten years, if this was what happiness truly felt like.

Shanks’ fingers made an upwards sweep over her cheek, lingering by her ear, and there was something new to the look he gave her now; an open expression of quiet wonderment, as though he couldn’t quite wrap his head around what he was seeing.

“You’re beautiful,” he told her then, the admission offered entirely without embellishment, and the stark honesty of the simple statement rendered her momentarily incapable of response.

Her eyes dropped, taking him in for the first time since she’d come running down and had barely had time to get a good look before she’d thrown her arms around his neck. And there was that near-dizzying rush of warmth again, eagerly sweeping over his shape, familiar but new; the strong lines of his frame drawing a picture of casual grace and easy confidence. And she had half a mind to ask him to make good on his earlier warning, feeling suddenly just how _long_ it had been, and that having him at her fingertips now wasn’t nearly enough.

She also had the fleeting thought to mention the garish pattern on his shorts, before something quite different stole her attention.

Reaching out, Makino touched her fingers to the slip of fabric tied around the hilt of the sword hanging at his hip, the once-bright floral pattern faded almost beyond recognition, along with the colour, and when she raised her eyes back to his, the grin that met her was unapologetic.

Her own smile softened, small and knowing. “Found it, did you?”

“Stroke of luck,” Shanks said. “Must have slipped under my bunk.”

“Mhm.”

“I thought I’d keep it safe for you. And I’m liable to misplace a lot of things, but I’ve never lost my sword. Well. Not yet.”

“Safe, hmm? Is that why it looks like it’s been through the digestive tract of a sea king?”

He threw his head back with a laugh that carried across the whole wharf, and she thought she hadn’t heard a lovelier sound in ten years. “You know I like to live dangerously,” he told her, eyes twinkling with familiar humour, before his expression shifted into something almost disparaging, and the change was so quick it had barely had time to register before he said, “But dangerous or not, ten years will take their toll on most things.”

It was her turn to touch his cheek, tucking her palm against it, and she watched his eyes slip shut, as though prompted by the contact. The scars still sat, etched deep into his skin. The years had done little to dull them, and there was a part of her that wondered why; that old curiosity that begged for relief, tempered only by that uncharacteristic flicker of anger as she thought of the culprit, and wondered what could leave marks so deep they refused to fade.

But like the scars, her impression of them hadn’t changed, and when she spoke her voice was thick with the feeling that pushed up her throat, and Makino knew he didn’t need to see her face to hear the honesty when she said, gently but firmly, “Not all things.”

He opened his eyes at that, seeking hers, and the look he gave her now was an entirely new thing, not belonging to the man who’d left, but to the one who’d come back. But more than anything, it was _hers._

When he dipped his head this time, she’d tilted hers to meet him, fingers gripping his shirt, but there was none of her earlier, reckless abandon in this kiss; a thing of slow, tender warmth that she felt under her skin, not pushing outwards now but inwards, and filling every crevice until there was no room left within her to breathe or think.

She felt his hand where it came to cradle the back of her head, the steady grip of his fingers dragging more of her hair loose from the braid, and she would have been happy just to stand there, enclosed by his presence and the grinning warmth of his mouth over hers.

When he drew back, Makino caught his smile, and if she’d had any breath left to yield the sight would have taken it. And, "Come on," Shanks said, warm fingers wrapping around hers, pulling her with him. "The guys wouldn't want me hogging you all to myself."

"I'm surprised you're okay with that,” she laughed, tucking her fingers against his palm.

He looked at her, eyes lit with that keenly intimate warmth. "Oh, if I could have my way, I would," he said, before he added, dropping his voice for her ears only, "But I can wait a little longer for that." And Makino marvelled at his ability to make her blush, even after ten years apart.

The crew who hadn’t already made for the tavern fell into step behind them, and she caught the muted talk drifting toward them, a tide in their wake, ebbing and swelling—

" _Shit_ , she’s something. I thought Boss was exaggerating. You know, like he does.”

"Yeah, but Ben never corrected him. And you know he almost never agrees with the captain."

“Still, though. Kept her waiting ten years, and gets a greeting like _that_. Makes me regret not adding more to the pool.”

“There’s still the other ones.”

“Oh, _right_. The one with the…?”

“Mhm. Better hurry up with that one, though. If I've placed my bets right, we’ll be cashing that in tomorrow.”

“Damn. Who’s got the ledgers?”

Makino shared a look with Shanks, only to find him shaking his head, but he wasn’t bothering to temper his grin, and when he squeezed her fingers she felt it echoed in the gesture.

There was a low whistle then, slipping smoothly under the quiet before someone said, "All of this is making me wonder if the wife-business might be worth a shot, even at sea like we are."

Someone else snorted. “Depends on the wife. You’re not likely to get one like that.”

A splutter. "I could!"

Makino ducked her head, grin a little embarrassed as Shanks’ laughter fell, delighted by her reaction—

“She’s not just a pretty face, though. Puts Boss in his place like you wouldn't believe—"

“Not hard to see what’s got Cap so smitten—”

"Acting like a  _teenager—_ ”

—and found that she truly had become her old Mistress’ successor now. The barmaid in the backwater port, whose story was known even by those who'd never met her.

But as she looked up into the grinning face of the man walking at her side, his shadow large and familiar with the sun at his back, she knew there was one marked difference to her story.

"It's good to be back," Shanks said with a wink, putting words to her thoughts, and with the them, the past ten years seemed suddenly insignificant. And she didn’t think about the mother she’d buried, who’d waited until her years had run out, or the old pirate who’d shown up on Makino’s doorstep, a year too late.

Instead she thought of the old woman who’d told her she wouldn’t win anything without first betting something. And she’d bet everything she’d had.

And she could have lost, Makino knew. He might not have made it back. Or it might have been his crew returning, on their captain’s behalf. It could have been Ben at her doorstep, with the news she’d been dreading for a decade.

But she hadn’t lost. She’d gambled, and won, and he’d come back to her like he’d promised. And she resolved then, walking in the shade of his familiar frame, restless heart at ease for the first time in ten years, that there was no way she was letting him go this time.

And she decided that the only reason she'd ever want to see Ben at her door twenty years down the line, was if he'd been personally invited.

 

—

 

"—and you should have seen the look on Ben's face! I swear his hair turned grey that very second."

His humour was as contagious as she remembered it being, and her chest ached from laughing as he laid before her the more memorable events of their separation, most of which involved Ben's slowly thinning patience and subsequently greying mane.

"I can't believe he let you get away with that," Makino said, as she refilled his glass. An almost empty bottle sat on the table between them, amber liquid bleeding gold from the lapping flame of the candle beside it, the only source of light in the otherwise darkened common room. They’d pulled their chairs close together, and she’d tucked her legs in his lap, an easy intimacy that defied a whole decade, and then some.

Shanks’ hand was warm where he’d rested it on her ankle, thumb brushing idle patterns along the arch of her foot, and she felt the reprieve of it when he reached out to take his refilled tumbler, lifting it to his lips with a too-quick grin. "You and me both. It’s a small miracle he’s stuck around this long."

Makino smiled as he watched him knock it back, before putting it down, reaching back to wrap his fingers around the curve of her ankle again. The smile that sat with ease along his mouth had chased off some of the shadows that had been with him when he’d walked off the gangway earlier. His laughter had seen to the rest, and as the tension had let go of his shoulders, yielding bit by bit, tale by far-fetched tale, Makino had felt her own relaxing in turn.

She hadn't expected him to come back to her entirely unscathed, but it gave her hope that her gentle efforts could keep the ghosts at bay — small touches, and a refilled glass; an attentive ear to stories that became progressively more improbable. But his delight in her questions was evident, and the hand around her ankle sat, a comfortable weight anchoring them together as the evening crawled into night, the hours seeming to pass them by, too quick to catch.

The crew had left early under a vague pretence of being tired from a long voyage, but Makino had caught Ben's look as he'd herded the pirates out of her tavern, and known the gesture for what it was. Privacy, dearly sought, and well-deserved after ten years apart.

And privacy was what they had now, sitting there in that intimate cradle of quiet, the dark softened only by the light of a single candle. They’d been left alone for a good few hours, and had spent them all talking.

He'd told her of the war, filling in the gaps left by what she'd learned from the broadcast and the newspapers. He’d shared with her the various adventures and misadventures spanning the length of their separation, until she’d been left, bent over her chair, gasping from laughter.

And there were yet more things to be shared between them, Makino knew — old and new truths, still spanning that gap between their worlds, and she would welcome them all as she'd welcomed all of him, the years on his shoulders and all his new scars.

There’d be time for those stories, like there’d be time for other things, although she tried not to think too much about the fact that, for all his suggestive teasing, he hadn’t done more than kiss her, and not since they’d left the docks. And even though they were sitting close together, for a man who’d once barely been able to keep from touching her, he was showing a surprising amount of restraint.

She didn’t want to consider that it might be something else that was holding him back — didn’t, and yet for some reason her thoughts kept coming back to it.

“Hey,” Shanks said then, drawing her gaze back from where it had dropped to the bottom of her empty tumbler, and when she looked at him he’d cocked his head curiously. The candlelight danced in his eyes, but the playful light did little to ease the weight that had settled over his brow. “What’s wrong?”

She shook her head. “It’s nothing.”

“Liar.”

The soft reprimand fell between them, not a single beat missed, as though he’d expected it, and Makino met his eyes. Shanks only raised his brows in question, and she held his gaze for a whole, tense second, before she let her own drop. “We’ve been sitting here a while,” she said at length.

“Yeah,” he agreed, and nothing in his voice revealed what he thought about her vague remark. “We’ve almost finished the whole bottle.” When she didn’t lift her gaze back up, Makino felt him squeeze her ankle. And his voice had dropped an octave when he spoke next, the syllables of her name rolling off his tongue in that way that still left her reeling. He wasn’t teasing now. “Makino.”

She looked at him — that effortless picture of ease that hadn’t changed one bit, as though he’d been made to sit where he did now, the room only existing so he could be in it. He’d draped his cloak over the back of one of the empty chairs, and his half-open shirt hung loose, that same near-careless indecency he flaunted without shame, the right sleeve rolled up to his elbow and the left cut off, the missing arm glaringly apparent. No pretence around her, but then he’d never bothered with that where she was concerned.

She allowed a small smile to touch her mouth, and saw his brows furrowing further. Ten years, and she still couldn’t hide anything from him. “We’re alone,” she said.

Shanks inclined his head, amusement winking in his eyes now, brighter than the candlelight. “Ye—es?”

“You—” She made a gesture, although she wasn’t entirely sure at what. Him where he was seated, maybe, his hand still around her ankle. And she didn’t say anything more than that, but she saw as realisation dawned on him, his mouth dropping open a bit.

Then, a loud laugh rolling out of him, “ _That’s_ what’s got you worried? That I didn’t pounce on you the moment we were alone?”

She turned her eyes away. She didn’t know if she was pleased or miffed that he’d caught on so quickly, and without her actually _saying_ anything. “No,” she lied.

“Oh you _liar_.” His laugh had lifted with delight now, a tinge breathless, but his mirth wasn’t any less genuine for it. Then, “Wait a minute— are you _disappointed_ I didn’t?”

Makino very pointedly avoided looking at him. She hadn’t felt this flustered since she was twenty. “I’m—”

“Yes?” The amusement was so ripe in that lone word it was practically dripping with it.

“It’s been ten years,” she blurted, before she could stop herself — or better yet, think of something a bit more articulate to match the shit-eating grin he was giving her. “You’ll have to excuse me if I expected a little more—”

“More?”

“—enthusiasm.”

Shanks blinked, before his look darkened, and the sudden promise behind his gaze had an all-too familiar heat singing through her, for all that it had been years since she’d felt it quite so strongly.

But it was difficult to stop talking, especially when he was looking at her like _that_. “I wasn’t sure what you were thinking—”

“You’ve got your feet in my lap, Makino. You tell me what I’m thinking.”

She felt her cheeks warming further, and could only shake her head. She very deliberately kept her foot still under his hand, but her smile had settled now, and seemed to have no plans of budging. “You’re still shameless,” she told him.

“Shamelessly so,” Shanks countered, sounding entirely happy about it. “And I can still make you blush,” he said. Then, softer, as though to himself, although he’d never once taken his eyes off hers, “Imagine that, after ten years.”

Makino curled her fingers around the tumbler in her lap, the glass smudged from her restless handling. And she felt a twinge of embarrassment then, for mentioning it — for assuming, when he might just have desired her companionship before they moved on to other things. He’d only been back a few hours, and it wasn’t like he was leaving immediately. They had time.

A large hand closed around hers then, and she started, before she realised that she’d been fretting with the glass. She felt the reprieve of his earlier contact, and curled her toes together, but Shanks said nothing as he extracted the glass from her grip, before he put it on the table next to his own.

"You know," he said then, leaning back in his chair, and Makino felt his fingers as they wrapped around her ankle again, as though he’d sought the contact without thinking. She allowed her toes to uncurl. "We stopped by Yasopp's village on our way over."

She perked up, and didn’t even question what had prompted the remark, too distracted by what it implied. "Oh? Did he finally get to see his family?"

Something that looked kin to regret passed over his face at the question, and her excitement fell as quickly as it had crested, the long drop from her breast into the pit of her stomach as Shanks told her of the wife Yasopp had left behind, only to return to discover she’d died a long time ago.

But her grief wasn’t given long to live, as the corner of his mouth lifted. "But you know, it was the strangest thing. They said the kid up and set out to sea, about a year ago.” He looked at her. “Along with a young man wearing a straw-hat."

She laughed, strings of sudden delight lifting her heart back up. "Really?"

"Things have a strange way of working out," Shanks mused, still looking at her.

She felt her smile softening under that look. "Yeah,” she said, quietly. “They do.”

Shanks was quiet for a moment, watching her, although Makino had the sense that he was building up to something. The candlelight softened the lines of his face that the years had made harder, the sharp bridge of his nose catching the shifting shadows, and she stared, a little mesmerised.

Then, “I wanted this to go right,” he told her, his features tightening a bit. And she had a feeling she knew, then, why he’d brought up Yasopp, even before he said, “I didn’t know what you’d feel, or how you’d feel, about that.” He lifted a shoulder in a shrug, but he hadn’t released her gaze. “And I know I keep repeating it,” he said, a wry note accompanying the words, before he added, evenly, “but it has been ten years. Things might not be the same.”

She didn’t need him to clarify to know what he was referring to, but even as she heard from the tone of his voice that he was serious, Makino felt suddenly like laughing. And from the way Shanks blinked at her, she knew her reaction hadn’t slipped his notice.

“Fool man,” she said fondly. “I don’t _care._ If they aren’t, we’ll figure it out.” She pursed her mouth with a smile. “And didn’t you tell me once that the practice-bit was the most fun part of sex?”

The laugh that _tore_ from him sounded so genuinely startled she felt her grin widening from the almost preening self-satisfaction it sparked in her.

“ _God_ ,” he sighed, still laughing, as though all his words were hewn from the sound. But then maybe that wasn’t far from the truth. When he looked at her next, he shook his head, as though he couldn’t quite decide what to make of her, but, “I love you,” he said. “Did I ever tell you that?”

She was momentarily so taken aback by the casual utterance, she couldn’t stop her own, startled laugh. Then, “Once,” she said, expression fondly chiding. “But I’m never prepared for it.”

“Good,” Shanks said, eyes glittering. “You know I live for catching you off guard.”

She rolled a hum around on her tongue, thinking of the unassuming morning she’d woken to, turned so thoroughly on its head with his sails on the horizon at long last, out of the blue when she’d almost been afraid to keep hoping. “I think you’ve been doing a good job so far.”

He tilted his head, the lift of his brow suddenly wry. “Too good, maybe,” he mused. “Seeing as you were expecting a more _enthusiastic_ reunion than you got. Although I’m not sure I’m happy about subverting your expectations where that’s concerned.”

The warmth clinging to her cheeks was too familiar to bring her embarrassment, and Makino met his gaze now without flinching. “Don’t speak too soon. The night is still young.”

“Not something it has in common with us,” Shanks countered breezily, and she snorted.

“Speak for yourself, Captain. I’m not the one sailing perilously close to forty,” she retorted. “Or wasn’t that how you put it?”

His sigh was wrapped around a laugh. “Your memory is a terrifying thing, my heart. You’ll put poor Ben out of a job at this rate.”

Like his earlier confession, the casual endearment made her heart jump in her chest, and she could tell her reaction hadn’t escaped his notice now either, by the boyish smile it prompted, a thing so wildly at odds with his age, and yet it still looked completely at home on his face. And like so many other things about him, it was a smile Makino was suddenly, desperately glad time and war and death hadn’t claimed.

“You should be careful saying things like that,” she said then, offering his words back, but entirely devoid of the cheek he’d spoken them with, “Or this reunion is about to become a lot more graphic.”

His grin was impish, and the purr that followed it had a shiver shooting up her spine as he asked, “That a promise?” When she offered a demure shrug of her shoulder, Shanks laughed. “Well, you know I won’t be hard to ask,” he told her, the words old and familiar, and the memory of the day he’d first spoken them following close at their heels, no sunlight warming the floorboards beneath them, but the flickering candlelight dancing across the table. Ten years between that moment and this one, but Makino wasn’t surprised to find that it still left her short of breath.

Shanks looked at her then — the same look he’d first given her that day, but that she hadn’t known him well enough to understand back then. It was the look of someone who’d seen more of the world than most, but the honest wonderment on his face left her feeling like he was searching his memory for a sight that was her equal, and was coming up short. Although by the smile that accompanied it, he seemed entirely happy at the discovery.

And for all her years of waiting, damn it all if it wasn't worth it for a look like that.

She lifted her feet, uncoiling from her recline as she slipped out of her chair and into his lap in one fluid movement, and she watched the climb of his brows towards his hairline, followed by the slow curl of his smile as it eased across his face. His arm came to wrap around her, the flat of his palm curving over her hip, warm through the fabric of her skirt as she settled against him.

She shifted in her seat, the action deliberate, but when she arched a knowing brow Shanks matched it with one of his own.

“I told you,” he rumbled, and Makino laughed, leaning close to kiss him; felt the hand on her hip pushing up her back, carding through her hair, loose of her braid now, before it cradled the back of her head. She heard the slight catch in his breath, and when he shifted she sank against him, the solid frame she remembered pushing back, taut muscles coiled under sun-kissed skin, warm beneath her palms.

"No interruptions this time," she said, and she felt his grin curving under her own.

"No need to hurry, then. Although— wait, are you unbuttoning my shirt?” He laughed against her mouth. “Impatient, aren’t you? Not that I blame you, I’m surprised the anticipation for this moment didn’t kill me. You know I’ve barely slept in two days? But I’d rather not be sitting for this. Well— that depends entirely on you. I’m easily convinced, with the right incentive.”

“I’m just now realising how quiet my life has been without you,” Makino said, pushing his hair back from his brow. “You talk like a running faucet.”

“I can’t tell if you mean that in a good way.”

“Usually,” she kissed the word against his mouth, teeth nipping at his lip as she added, “But right now I’d rather you used that mouth for more productive things.”

He _laughed_ , and she wanted suddenly to claim it all, feeling how it shook through him. “ _More productive things_ , she says. How much of that bottle did you drink?”

She gave a tug at his hair for that. “If you’re just going to tease, I’m having another glass.”

“Oh, by all means. You’re delightful when you’re drunk.” He grinned. “So shameless.”

She held his gaze, threading her fingers through his hair. “Maybe it’s not the drink that’s to blame.”

His grin stretched, far too wide to promise anything but cheek. “Are you implying my very presence makes you drunk?”

“Are you trying to turn this into a compliment?”

“I’m not hearing you disagreeing.”

Laughing, Makino pressed her brow to his shoulder, and felt his fingers running through her hair. “Not drunk,” she said, nose tucked into the crook of his neck. He still smelled the same; the way the cloak he’d left her had smelled, although the years had long since taken that. And so she allowed it to fill her nose now, closing her eyes as she breathed him in, her smile curving as she murmured, “But a little tipsy, maybe.”

She felt his chuckle, the tender sound of it, and the leap of his pulse under his skin where she kissed it. “I’ve missed your flattery. I don’t know how I’ve survived all these years without it.”

“Only the flattery, hmm?”

The hand moving to cradle her head was answer enough, the touch deceptively casual, given that she could feel how his fingers shook.

"You know," Makino said then, drawing back to look at him, the slight incline of his head as he observed her where she sat, “If you’re not up for being seated, you could always do something about it. I seem to remember you making a promise about being able to lift me?"

At his look, she felt that dizzying sensation; the coil of heat at her core that had her breath sitting suddenly hard in her chest, but her desire was a calm, steady thing as she flattened her hands against his chest.

Then, before she’d had the chance to react, he’d tightened his grip around her back and pushed out of his seat, and her laughter was lost in a strangled shriek of surprise as he tossed her over his shoulder.

“This is so much more romantic in the books,” she laughed, as Shanks blew out the guttering candle and made for the stairs.

“Hey, I only have one arm,” he told her, grip tightening around the backs of her legs for emphasis. “This is the best you get, take it or leave it.”

“With that kind of offer, how could a girl possibly resist?”

He grinned. “This girl? She’d manage, I’m sure.”

“I don’t know if you’re complimenting my stubbornness or selling yourself short," Makino said.

“I don’t know how to sell myself short,” he retorted smoothly, inclining his head to look at her as they covered the landing. “But if anyone could resist, it would probably be you.” Then, teeth flashing in a wolfish grin, “Although that’s a challenge I’ll happily accept.”

“Now I don’t know if I should be impressed or worried.”

She didn’t need to see his face to know which expression he was wearing now, as he pushed through the door to her bedroom and quipped, “Give me five minutes and I’m sure you’ll have your answer.” Then, “For better or worse.”

And for once, Makino thought his laughter — that larger-than-life sound that swelled and crested and carried and _filled_ , every space available to it — had finally met its match in her own.

 

—

 

He'd put her down on her feet and was kissing her before they'd fully crossed the threshold to her bedroom, still laughing, and the past ten years were forgotten under that half-wild reverence, and the stumbling but eager steps back into what they had been once. There was little left of his earlier reservations, touching her now, seeking familiar spots and reactions he'd once known by heart, re-learning an intimate knowledge, a little wiser with every thrust, and every hitched breath surrendered against his mouth.

And if their private reunion was enthusiastic, the aftermath was subdued, full of lazy, adoring touches and thick, half-drowsy laughter, pressed against bare skin and soft, rumpled sheets.

And it had loosened something in him, Makino saw — that last, stubborn note of tension gone, bled out of his broad shoulders and the muscles of his back, and the sprawl of him across the mattress of her bed was as unabashedly exaggerated as it had been, when he’d been a younger man with fewer years on his heart.

But, “Will you tell me?” she asked, straddling his hips, fingertips following the path of a new scar, and wondering at the story behind it.

Opening his eyes from where they’d slipped shut, Shanks regarded her where she sat, and even though the lazy smile slipped, the expression it left in its wake wasn’t regretful. A bit wary, maybe, but whatever he found on her face, it allowed him to say, with an exhale that sounded relieved more than anything else—

“Yeah.”

And so she listened to the stories as he told them — of the cheeky thirteen-year-old who’d left his hometown to take his chances with the sea. The not-yet-a-man who, having taken one step aboard the ship of the pirate who’d one day be known as the king of them all, had gotten into a fight with a fellow cabin-boy for insulting his nose. The almost-a-man who’d watched his captain walk to the gallows, and who’d cried more in a single afternoon than he had his whole life, before and after. He told her of the brash, angry twenty-year-old, now captain of his own crew, and of the ugly rivalry that had nearly cost him his eye, leaving scars that wouldn't yield, almost two decades later.

Some stories were easier to tell — the ones behind his first bounty, and his second. The ones he told of his old captain’s first mate, who’d taught him everything he knew of how to utilise his unique knack for _haki_ , and who’d left him dangling by his ankles from the rigging a whole afternoon when he’d pushed his luck too far.

Others were harder. The most recent ones especially, telling of dangerous tides and dangerous people, and the New World, where _survival_ and _supremacy_ were interchangeable terms.

He asked her what she already knew, about who he was, and filled in the gaps where it was needed — had made corrections to some assumptions, and had laughed himself to tears when she’d quipped softly that although it wasn’t a king, she supposed she could settle for an emperor, if there were no other royals at hand.

When he was done, he'd looked at her, curled up against his side, and asked her what she thought — a question that implied far more than it suggested, but Makino hadn’t even spared a moment’s hesitation to considering any of them; had only said _okay,_ to all of them.

And she hadn’t allowed him to linger on that certainty long enough to doubt it — had sought instead to coax more laughter from him, prodding gentle hands at the stories that had been her favourite, asking for more details, to which Shanks had been happy to oblige, and she’d pretended she couldn’t feel how he held her just a little tighter.

She wondered what their story would be, one year from now, or two. Another ten.

But as she listened to him outlining the finer points of the stories behind the steep incline of his bounty — upon which he’d looked at her and raised his brows suggestively, until she’d laughed so hard she couldn’t breathe — Makino had the feeling that it didn’t matter what it was, because it’d be theirs, every single year from this moment. And it wasn’t a story that would require one of them telling it, ten years down the line.

Unless it was another eager heart asking — kinder than hers, and younger than his, but that one theirs, too, and perhaps more than anything else the world could hew from their separate wholes.

 


	19. coda, the last of our well-thumbed pages

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's the revised post-timeskip epilogue! If you want to read about what occurred in the two years between chapter 18 and this one, the sequel to this fic, [Sea Songs](https://archiveofourown.org/works/8491117), fills in the gaps, and then some.

"Are you all set?"

He turned at the sound of her voice, a grin stretching across his face. "Almost," Shanks said, shifting the little bundle supported by his arm. "You think anyone would notice if I stowed this little guy away?" he asked, gently rocking their son, fussing now, as though having sensed what was in the air; the farewells that would never be easy, even with all the practice they’d had.

"Ben would never let you," Makino countered smoothly, stepping into the warmth of his presence. She ran a gentle fingertip over that small brow, the gesture quieting the fussing a little. "You know you'd leave the brunt of the work to him."

She looked up to find Shanks smiling down at her. "Yeah, you're right. You're a natural at this — I'd have to take you both," he joked, and if she didn’t know him so well Makino thought she might have been fooled by his good humour.

"I wish I could," he added, and it was spoken with the wry understanding of a futile hope.

They'd had this conversation before — had exhausted the subject throughout the long months of her pregnancy; the unexpected but not unwelcome development that had put her fledgling career of piracy to an abrupt end. She might have adapted to life aboard his ship, but it was no place for a baby — they'd both agreed on that, even if she could still read Shanks’ half-hearted protests as far deeper things.

An idea seized her then, and she returned his smile fearlessly, heart swelling with sudden resolve, and, "Find me an island," she said, and at his raised brow, her grin widened. "On the Grand Line. When your part in this story is finally over, find me an island I've never heard of on the edge of the world." She ran a hand over the soft fuzz on the baby's head, still too light to make out what colour it would be.  _Red_ , she hoped. "And I'll make it ours."

Shanks cast a glance at the village sprawling at her back. "What about Fuschia?"

Makino smiled, eyes on the baby in the crook of his arm. "It's always been my home, but as much as I love it, it doesn't have to be his.”

“And anyway,” she told him with a small shrug, as she raised her eyes to his. “My home is wherever you are. Both of you.”

Shanks paused at that, and some unnamed emotion passed across his face, a sudden thing of terrible feeling, before he ducked his head to kiss her, but the abruptness of the gesture was as familiar as the scratch of his stubble against her jaw, and she breathed into the kiss, closing her eyes against the glare of the sun. As always, his departure was greeted with cheerful weather, and Makino wondered idly if it would kill the East Blue to muster up a storm, just once.

The baby cooed softly, snug between them and safe in the curve of that steady arm, and when she broke the kiss she leaned down to place one at that tiny, wrinkled brow. Their son blinked up at her, eyes dark against rosy cheeks, and despite her heavy heart, the smile it prompted had her laughing.

When she looked back up at Shanks, it was to find him watching, a pensive mien drawn tight across his features. "I'll try to make it back as often as I can," he told her, his voice low where it slipped under the familiar din of preparations.

Makino smiled, running her fingers along the curve of his arm, in which their son lay, his earlier discontent forgotten and looking like he was on his way back to sleep. "We'll be here waiting."

His sigh was an old thing. "I'd say I was sorry, but..." He looked down at his son, and the grin that stretched along his mouth left no room for apology, even before he said, "I can't really make myself mean it."

“Don’t be sorry,” she said, eyes crinkling as she watched him, her look meaningful. “I’m not.”

A crooked smile danced along his mouth. “No?”

Wordlessly, she slipped her hand under the open collar of his shirt, fishing out the thin chain holding his wedding ring and turning it between her fingers. Too large for even her thumb, she tucked it into the heart of her palm, feeling the cool metal pressing against her skin.

“No,” she said, gripping the ring once, before she let it go, tucking it back under his shirt. Her own still sat, wrapped around her finger. The privilege of her unassuming, land-bound life, to demonstrate her happiness without fear that there might be those looking to exploit it for their own gain. All Makino had to contend with was village talk, but even that had softened over the years — not so much gossip now as fondness. Their odd, bookish barmaid with her pirate husband.

“You’ll call,” Shanks said then, the sudden note of seriousness in his voice making her eyes lift. “If anything happens, or if you need me to come back. And if you hear anything—”

She curved her palm over his hand where it supported the baby, soft callouses against scarred knuckles, and the gesture stilled the words on his tongue. "Garp will make sure I know, if there's anything from Headquarters. I'd be long gone before they even got here. Fuschia is pretty far out of their way." She looked for a reassuring smile, to ease the heavy slant of his brow. "And I've got a village at my back. And Dadan. I'll manage, one way or another. We both will."

His nod was long in coming, and didn't seem wholly convinced. And when he looked at her now she saw in his eyes all the things he'd told her, of the sea he was setting out for.

"I would have you safe," Shanks said, voice wrought with something that rang like a vow. "More than anything."

Her throat felt like it was closing up, but Makino nodded, fingers trembling where she'd tucked them around his.

And this was another thing they'd discussed to death — the possibility of history repeating itself. It had been more for Shanks' sake than her own, Makino felt, but then he'd witnessed first-hand what the world was capable of; the little mercy it’d had for the son of a wanted man, and with his own tucked safely in the crook of his arm, the comparison carried more weight in his heart than it did in hers. The war had left more scars than just physical ones, not just in Garp, but in her husband, too; and with their shared history, Makino wouldn’t begrudge them their wariness, or their precautions.

She thought suddenly of the freckled face she'd never see again, and something fierce took hold of her heart, a conviction so severe it left her short of breath; the chilling resolve that she'd do whatever the sea demanded, to keep their son safe.

She turned her gaze to the slumbering baby, dark eyes hidden under closed lids now. Hers or his, like his hair it was too soon to tell, although Shanks had jokingly said they were far too compelling to be anyone's but his mother’s.

"Ace is a good name," she said then, stroking a thumb over the curve of a smooth cheek, too soft and new for the little signs that life left, freckles and lines and scars. "I'm glad we decided on that."

Shanks smiled an odd smile. "Captain Roger would have liked it, I think. He always had an appreciation for things like that." He gave a fond roll of his eyes. "Ben calls me a sentimental sap, but I think he agrees. He just needs to disagree for the sake of disagreeing."

Makino laughed. "That does sound like him."

He was silent a moment, gaze once again fixed on their son. "A parent’s legacy can be a burden, so I hope this will be a good one where mine isn't."

"I can't think of a better legacy to pass on," she agreed, before curling her fingers around his in a fierce grip, making him look at her. "But I won’t accept that your own is anything but worthy.”

His eyes crinkled at the corners, although his smile held a familiar edge of self-deprecation. “If I couldn’t read your face like a book, my dear, I’d be tempted to call you on your bluff.”

Makino pressed her lips together, and lifted her chin — something that didn’t go unnoticed, by the way his brows quirked upwards. “You've done good things in this world, Shanks," she said, unyielding in that conviction, and daring him to contradict her. She remembered what he’d told her, about the war — the graves of an old rival, and a boy he'd only met once but who'd made an impression that had lasted, long after he was gone. A legacy they’d passed to their son, now.

She smiled down at him, safe in his father's hold. "And I can't imagine that he'll grow up to be anything but proud."

Shanks’ smile was dubious, but he didn't correct her, even as she could see the uncertainty that still lingered behind his eyes.

Well. She could match that stubbornness with her own, as she’d proven more than once.

“And I hope he’s like you,” she said then, making Shanks’ eyes lift back to hers. She let slip a cheeky smile, coaxing some of the regret to ease from the air. “It means I'll have my hands full, and won't have time to wait."

"Oh yeah? Is this one of those cases where he'll be your son only if he behaves and mine when he doesn't?"

“Hmm, we’ll see. If he takes after me, I’ll probably have something else to contend with than feet that won’t sit still.”

“Given your proclivities, I wager he’ll have his nose stuck in a book before he even learns to read,” Shanks agreed. His eyes had a familiar gleam in them now. “A good thing he won't be able to for a few years yet, considering what kind of books you’ve got tucked away. Might want to relocate that hidden library under our bed — somewhere out of reach of small hands. I’d hate to have to explain all the shirtless guys on the covers.”

She knew he was prone to be entirely casual about monumental things, but the effortless _our_ that had slipped into his vocabulary lately still managed to catch her off guard. And from the wink he slipped her, Makino had no doubt that he was more than aware of what he was doing.

“I don’t think you’ll have to explain anything,” she told him then, “given that he’ll be growing up with you for a role model.” For emphasis, she put her hand against his chest, most of it exposed, as usual. His skin was a shock of warmth under her palm, and she brushed her fingers over a familiar scar, feeling his heart leaping to meet her touch. Ignoring the responding curl of heat in her gut, she allowed a single brow to lift. “Indecent exposure, dear husband? Aren't you a little old for that? You'll be forty next year, you know.”

“I’m sorry,” Shanks said, grin shameless, and she didn't doubt that he'd caught on to her reaction. “I was distracted by you pawing at me in public. What was that you were saying about role models?”

She gave a playful tug at his shirt, before smoothing her hand down the front of it. “Maybe if you didn’t flaunt everything, I wouldn’t be so tempted.”

“Tempted, huh? Those are dangerous words.”

“You’re about to set sail,” Makino reminded him with a laugh, and marvelled slightly at the good humour that followed the remark. She figured there would always be part of her that would feel sorrow at him leaving, but it wasn’t the same as it had been. His leaving now held the promise of a return — not guaranteed, given the sea he was setting sail for, but it was a different separation they faced now, bound together by more than just affection. Now they had their marriage vows, and the little life that was their creation; the sum of their wholes.

“Five minutes,” Shanks said, lifting his brows meaningfully, the old joke a dear and familiar thing, and Makino shook her head. He grinned. “Come on. You’re thinking about it, don’t lie.”

“Careful,” she warned, and she saw from his widening grin that he was about to quip that he hadn’t heard her deny the statement. “At this rate we’ll have another one on our hands. Five minutes is all it takes.”

She was teasing, but the expression that settled on his face was startlingly genuine. “I wouldn’t mind another one,” Shanks told her honestly. Another monumental truth, offered without embellishment. “A girl, maybe.”

She felt her smile soften. “A girl?”

“She’d have to take after you, though. Even if I am the prettiest man you’ve ever met, I doubt she’d appreciate inheriting any of my features.” Then, dark eyes grinning, a familiar, intimate weight behind them where they took her in, “But yours, now…”

Makino ducked her head, a soft laugh pulling free of her chest. "Smooth-talking the mother of your child, Captain? One would almost think your intentions aren't entirely innocent."

His grin was a roguish thing. "They're not. And don't tempt me into proving just how much they're not," he said, the deep quality of his voice sending a shiver across her bare arms. “You know, the promise of five minutes still stand—”

"Captain," Ben's voice cut in, as though on cue, and Shanks lifted his eyes to the sky. Makino didn’t bother to hide her smile, and Ben’s expression held bemusement of the ‘do I even want to know?’ sort when he came to stand beside them, although from the light winking in his eyes Makino had the impression he knew exactly what he’d interrupted.

"We're all set to depart,” he said then, gaze shifting away from them, and to his godson in Shanks’ hold. And there was a trace of something rare on his usually unreadable face as he spoke the words — regret, or something close.

Makino hid her knowing smile away, although by the look Shanks shot her it hadn’t slipped his notice, and she felt his amusement as it rolled off her. She seemed to be handling their impending separation better than the crew as a whole, although she wisely tucked the laughing remark behind her cheek.

But she allowed herself to feel it — the fierce swell of fondness that accompanied the thought, too many uncles for one little boy to one day count. And at its heels, the sting of bitter melancholy, thinking of the loud, rousing lullabies that had kept her tavern filled with sound for the past eight weeks. All they knew were sea shanties and tavern songs, but that hadn't made a difference; and wouldn't, for the baby who'd one day remember the melodies.

Looking at Ben now, she allowed a deep breath to fill her chest, the fresh sea air lifting her spirits somewhat, and enough for her to put on a smile as she said, "Take care of him for me, Ben?"

Ben returned the smile, although a tinge drier than hers. "It goes without saying."

Shanks sighed. "You talk like you're my mother, Ben. I'm your superior."

Ben was looking at his godson. "He's quiet."

"Mm. He was fussing a bit earlier, but it looks like he's asleep now. He seems to like the sea air."

"Hey. I'm right here," Shanks reminded them.

"You think he'll be crawling by the time we get back?" Ben asked.

Makino didn’t answer at once. She didn’t want to linger too long on how many months they might be gone this time, but knew it was Ben’s way of preparing her for it. Subtly, but without coddling.

"That depends on how long you're away," she said at length, and let him make what he wanted of that statement. "He might."

But — she did find a smile then, imagining what it might be like, a few years down the line. Small, eager feet running ahead of her own. Maybe even more than one set.

As though having read her thoughts in her smile, "Between the two of you running to meet him, he'll have his hands full," Ben said, before that clever mouth quirked. "Well. Hand."

Shanks rolled his eyes. " _Twelve years_ and we still haven’t retired the one-armed jokes? Seriously—”

"If he's anything like me, he'll be fast on his feet,” Makino mused. “I'll have to try and keep up."

 _"Guys_."

Ben threw him a sidelong look. "That you think we can actually tune you out astounds me."

Shanks grinned. "You're always trying, Ben."

"Trying, yes. Succeeding?" He shook his head, and gave Makino a meaningful look, before he turned back towards the ship. He didn't repeat his earlier reminder, but it rang loud and clear in his straight-backed posture, and the heavy footfalls as he made towards the gangway.

Watching him go, there was a moment where she was abruptly brought back twelve years, and recognition skittered with unease across her skin as she thought about the ocean they were departing for. Back then she'd been ignorant — had only known the New World through hearsay and the occasional newspaper article, and the little Garp had let slip. The war had changed much, and the last two years had forged her innocence into something else, a wary sort of wisdom that rested, heavy at the bottom of her stomach like an anchor in the form of a single, terrible word.

_Emperor._

"Be careful," she said then, drawing Shanks' attention from where his gaze had once again been focused on the baby, a new father's delight in every little breath and noise, and she knew he was trying to claim as many as he could to take with him, not knowing how long it would be until he saw him again.

But he'd shifted his focus to Makino now, when she said, "The papers—" She stopped herself. "I don't know what it's like first-hand, but if the papers are any indication..." she trailed off, but knew that whatever she told him, it wasn’t anything new. It wasn’t anything he didn’t already know, or hadn’t already considered.

So instead she settled for a different route. "Be careful,” she repeated, and wrapped the words tight with a resolve that wouldn’t have it any other way, even if she knew she could only make so many demands, safe in her quiet port; her quiet sea. “All of you,” she added — unnecessarily, maybe, as it was already implied, but this wasn’t just her crew; this was her _family_.

Then her look softened, and her smile when she gave it was small and secret with something old and theirs. "That's an order, Captain."

The pleased curve of his eyes highlighted his laugh-lines, but the smile she found in them was decidedly wry. "Aye."

And his humour would have been of a different sort, Makino knew, if she'd been preparing to set sail with them, trading quick and playful remarks about her usurping of his position as they stood on deck together, watching Dawn Island disappear in the distance, maybe for the last time. Fate had dealt them an unexpected hand, but neither of them would have chosen differently —  _that_  was a truth she felt, and with more conviction than any other.

"Boss!" The call drew their eyes to one of the crew leaning over the railing, cheeky smile tinged with a bare flicker of regret. "We're raising the anchor now, so unless you want us to leave you...?"

Shanks sighed a laugh at the implied honesty in that suggestion. "Yeah, yeah, I'm coming. Sheesh." Turning towards her, there was a vivid reluctance to his movements as he extended his arm, and Makino lifted the small shape from his grip, tucking the gentle warmth against her breast.

Ace didn't stir, small chest rising and falling, unaware of the goings-on around him — that there existed a world beyond the protective grip of his father's arm, and the steady beat of his mother's heart.

When she lifted her gaze from that little face, Shanks was watching her, the corners of his mouth downturned now, and she had the sudden thought that he was preparing himself for the possibility that it might be the last time he ever saw her.

And Makino couldn’t blame him, having spent the morning preparing herself for the same thing, the first hour after dawn had roused her spent watching him sleep before she’d roused him in turn, and with far less care, kisses hurried and touches hard, knowing it would be their last morning together in some time, and fearing that it would be their last.

But that didn’t mean she’d accept defeat without a fight.

And so, “Come back to us,” she said, and put all the weight of her conviction behind it, as though daring the sea at his back to offer her misgivings. A challenge offered to a heart that thrived on them, and she saw by his smile that he’d heard it, and accepted.

His fingers curled below her chin, tilting her head for a kiss — a parting kiss, and they’d had their share of those, but this one seemed different, somehow. His shadow was large and familiar, but their embrace a thing of care, ever-mindful of the little shape tucked between them where there once wouldn't have been room for thought. And when he drew away she felt the tender touch of his brow against hers, a silent vow that allowed her breath to come a little easier in her chest.

Then, with a touch to the small head resting against her heart, Shanks spared her a last, meaningful look, before turning towards the gangway.

And there was something different about this departure, Makino found, as she watched them scramble to lift the gangway, along with the anchor. She was different, older and calmer where her heart had once given her so much grief. It was quiet now, snug behind her ribcage like the baby in her arms, and the knowledge of their return was as tangible as the soft cheeks and dark eyes of her son.

It wouldn't be forever. It wouldn't be ten years, even. It would be time, but she was a patient woman. And he was a man worth waiting for.

"Hey, you," she murmured as Ace made a noise, small nose wrinkling with displeasure. "Don't worry. Your dad will be back." She smiled, as she raised a hand to shield her eyes from the sun, watching the ship as it pulled away from the docks. In the distance, the horizon opened welcoming arms, the surface of the water a blinding lustre of silver-white. "He's a man who keeps his promises. And he promised me an island."

She smiled then, and the eyes looking up at her blinked sleepily, dark like the bottom of the ocean but alight with all the innocence of the world.

"And I'm holding him to that."

 

**Author's Note:**

> And that's it! If you're a new reader, I hope you enjoyed the ride, and if you're a returning one, I hope you liked the rewrite! Please leave a few words if you're so inclined; I know this fic is old and long-complete, but I'd still love to hear what you thought. But either way, I hope it was a good read!
> 
> Now, if this hasn't completely put you off my writing or this pairing, you can find the conclusion to their story, and all that leads up to it, in [Sea Songs](https://archiveofourown.org/works/8491117). Or if you prefer your road to happiness with a few extra hurdles thrown in, [Charybdis](https://archiveofourown.org/works/8820778) takes all the ominous foreshadowing in this fic and has a field day with them.
> 
> Thank you for reading, and I hope you'll stick around!


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